


FOR THE WIN

by asiriuswriter, srk1o3



Series: FOR THE WIN [1]
Category: American Football RPF, FOX NFL Sunday RPF, Football RPF, NFL Rush Zone, National Football League RPF, Patriots - Fandom
Genre: F/M, M/M, Other, do YOUR job, for the win verse, ftw verse, let's go boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-02-23 03:30:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 34
Words: 47,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13181430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asiriuswriter/pseuds/asiriuswriter, https://archiveofourown.org/users/srk1o3/pseuds/srk1o3
Summary: Football players tend to be gay for each other.This fanfic is here to help you survive the playoffs as the Patriots work towards their 6th Super Bowl Victory!!!Edit: 2017 did not result in a Super Bowl victory. However 2018 will - join us in Part 2: #REST #RECOVER #RESILIENCE.





	1. Chapter 1

"Too many biscuits, Tom!" Gisele let out a loving laugh, deep and throaty as ever, feeling unbelievably relaxed in the presence of her beloved husband that she so rarely got to spend time with. She froze while holding her brand new phone (Tom had recently broken her older one simply because it had 'been time to') to take another video for her instagram, feeling Tom's larger, warmer hand come down on her own. 

"No more videos," he pleaded unsympathetically. 

"... Why not?" Worry tugged at her smile. 

"Just stop. Please." 

"Tom..." 

"Rule number one of  _our_  Christmas tradition? Never  _enough_ biscuits."

Gisele kept on smiling, feeling her panic dissipate in hopes that Tom was simply joking around. "Mi amor, we both know you won't even eat any!!---"

"I'll eat _one_." He vocally intercepted, adding a cold, "Amo las galletas."

She shuddered at the solemn gravity of both Tom's tone and expression. "Me too..." After a few seconds of his eyes locked on her own, his gaze felt too heavy. She was the first to look away, smile gone, not a single trace of happiness to be found on her beautiful, youthful face. Tom turned away then too, going back to carefully buttering his biscuits. Gisele felt flustered and confused as she eyed the pristine kitchen floor as though searching for answers. "I'll, um... go check on the kids. Te amo, Tom." She left the kitchen, and Tom heard her call out for Viv. 

"Te amo." He murmured down at the golden biscuits. 

Lately, Tom didn't quite feel his normal self. It was truly unusual, for it took a great deal to throw someone of his excellency off; it seemed to take a number of different aspects coincidentally combining and unleashing their impact on him all together at once ---- a simple moment was all it took to throw _Tom Brady_ off... and that was _exactly_ what had happened on the day the Dolphins beat the Patriots. He hadn't been the same since. That was when it had hit him. Something about this year was just off.

It was hard enough to lose Edelman before the season even began (they'd grown so attached over the summer)... but to lose a game to the Dolphins?? It was more than a red flag indicating times were trying. It was a sign from the Mayan Gods themselves. He swallowed hard and wiped his hands off on a designer towel, thinking he should just go be sweet to his wife or whatever the hell it was happily married men were supposed to do when they were trying to hide their seemingly unending work-stress. 

As Tom took off to find her, his cell phone binged with a text. He slid it on out of his back pocket and read the words to himself. It was a text from a number he didn't recognize. Hmm.

' _Merry Christmas, my guy. See you soon, hopefully'_  

He scowled, ignoring the text. For avacado's sake, why wouldn't people just let him be? Before slipping the phone back into his pocket, he paused, bringing the phone back into both hands to write a different text out. 

He spoke the words he typed aloud. "Miss ya, Jules. Hope all is well with the fam." He blinked, frowned, sighed and deleted all of it.

 _The fam_. Tom hated the sound of that. More like the  **affair** Julian had had behind his back that summer. It was _still_ too much for Tom to even think about. Sucked that he couldn't even be angry about it given he had his own family. Both men had credited that to Tom's age at the time, but now Tom knew how much it must've hurt Julian to see him with Gisele and the kids. (Maybe. Maybe Julian wasn't as jealous as Tom-sore-loser-Brady was.) Maybe all of that was over now. And maybe he needed to stop thinking about it. 

Instead he texted Gronk. 

"Merry Christmas, buddy," once more Tom vocalized his text. It was sort of a bad habit of his. 

He received an immediate response. _'MARRY CRISMAS TOM HAHA!! I got Soxks!!!!'_

Tom grinned at his cell phone. "That is great," he said out loud, shooting the text to his best friend. The two of them were closer than ever this season. 

He dialed Bill too, figuring he should call his coach. Sometimes simply hearing the man's voice alone kept him sane. 

"Hey Tom." 

"Hi, coach. How's the ice caps?"

"It's all right. I'll be home by tomorrow. Just trying to get a feel of it up here."

"That's great. Hey look I'll talk to ya later."

"Okay, Tom, I--"

Tom hung up, feeling satisfied. He raced off to meet Gisele.   


	2. Gillette's After Christmas Visitors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill's Christmas is never complete without hearing from the team.  
> Rob Gronkowski makes it to practice kind of on time.  
> Gillette welcomes a couple visitors to practice.

"I bought my grandson ice skates, I didn't go to--"

There was a vague beep in Bill's ear as the line went dead. A deep frown tugged on his lips, though his expression did not altogether change much. Bill quickly stashed his phone away - a Motorola GLEAM+, the first phone he'd ever gotten and refused to update, he was _old school,_ as he often said - and shook his head. Brady's phone was always making fumbles, but he never bothered calling him back. They had said what they had needed to say.

No one needed a day off to relax more than Tom Brady. It was _known_.

Bill's grandson was  just over one years old, but it was never too early to deter him from football, from coaching. The sport was all-consuming. It was the only thing that Bill Bellichick could think about, all that he _cared_ about on most days, and it was not an easy life. Despite his best efforts, his kids had gone down the same path as he, but it wasn't too late for the little guy. Not yet.

Bill was just about to head back to the party held at his home outside Boston, just a short drive from the stadium in Foxborough, when his phone erupted in a boisterous, beeping ring. The theme song for Sunday Night Football blared, ringtone style. Someone ( ~~Gronk~~ ) had long ago set his ringtone and he'd been unable to figure out how to change it; not that it mattered. To Bill, nothing really mattered except football.

The caller ID did not work, or maybe he'd just never set it up, but it didn't bother him much. He always answered his phone _just in case_ one of his boys needed him. It was likely to be one from the team. _His_ team. Calling to wish him a happy holiday. With a gruff exhale, Bill flipped his phone open.

"Hello."

"COACHHHH!"

It was Rob. The young, tight end was one of the best in the league, but he was often too spontaneous, too enthusiastic. Let him have fun with the game, sure, but sometimes his excitement rubbed Bill the wrong way. It was hard to get him to calm down, but Bill never stopped trying. He never gave up.

"Merry Christmas, Rob."

"Merry Christmas, Coach! What's going on?"

Bill's eyes trailed to his family as they gathered around the dinner table, passing plates of brilliantly cooked turkey, stuffing, ham, potatoes, and vegetables.

Work was never-ending.

"About to have dinner. How are you, Rob?"

"I'm good, man, I'm good! I got socks for Christmas- hey ma! How many X's are in my socks?" he called out. In the background was a high-pitched mumble in response. Mrs. Gronkowski was a nice woman. She had often invited Bill over for meals. The poor lady had all sons, though none were  _quite_ as overwhelming as Rob. "XXXL socks. Some briefs, and some toothbrushes! Best. Christmas. Ever! Even Snoop doggy Dogggg commented on my insta and you  _know_ how much he loves those Steelers. How's your day been, man? What time we gotta be at Gillette tomorrow?"

"Just fine, thanks. Tomorrow, 8am. Don't drink too heavily. I'm going hard on you boys tomorrow," Belichick promised. There was also a _top secret_ plan in the works, one that would really mess with their rivals from Pittsburgh.

"Aight! Thanks coach. Hey! Enjoy those ice caps. Take some pics! Later days, man."

Rob hung up the phone before Bill could respond.

* * *

Waking up after a holiday was _not_ Rob Gronkowski's forte, but with an multi-million dollar contract, he knew he couldn't complain. He arrived at Gillette Stadium at precisely 8:00 -- well, maybe five, ten minutes late, but they wouldn't dare suspend him for _another_ game, not after that loss to the Dolphins. 

... _The Dolphins._

Perhaps one of the worst teams in the league with the _gayest_ logo- a mother fucking _dolphin-_ had managed to beat his boys just a couple weeks before. It was _all_ his fault, a fact that he would not soon forget. That goddamn late hit on that Bills dude, while worth it at the time, could have ruined his career. He needed to practice more self-control if he wanted to go down in the history books like some * _coughBradycough_ * of his teammates.

He spotted legend-----WAIT FOR IT------dary Tom Brady at the center of the field, tossing a ball back and forth with Hoyer. The rest of the team worked on stretches as the boys rolled in, changing into their gear and otherwise preparing for a hard day of practice. One game was left in the regular season and they sure as hell wouldn't take another embarrassing loss against a shitty team.

"HEY BRADY!" Gronk bellowed, catching his older teammate's attention. "Where the _hell_ are my biscuits, man?! I am _hungry!_ Beast needs to eat, am I RIGHT?"

He gave good old Joe Thuney a solid high five as the pair smiled and laughed together.

"Cold day in hell when Tom TB12 Brady shows up with _biscuits,"_ Thuney laughed under his breath. Tom's face screwed up, his expression somehow _sad_ before he turned back to Hoyer, pelting the ball towards him to get that arm good and warmed up. Today, he would be working on long throws. They _needed_ to get better at making big plays if they wanted to beat the Eagles, Vikings, or Steelers in the Super Bowl. He would _not_ give up ring number six over buttery, delicious, tantalizing, scrumptious, amazing, delectable biscuits. No, Brady wanted to decorate two hands, and he _knew_ his time was running out; at least, that was what everyone kept _saying._ But he lived for proving _everyone_ wrong.

"Yo, if Brady don't bring some biscuits, some bad shit's gonna happen," Gronk promised darkly, plenty loud enough for Tom to hear over the background noise of dozens of Patriots exercising in the oversized stadium.

Gronk made his way to the locker room where cameras had been installed on Brady's insistence. After deflategate-- a topic that was avoided _at all costs--_ and the case of the missing Super Bowl jersey, the Quarter Back wanted to take no chances. It didn't bother Gronk as much as some of the others. In fact, here, alone in the locker room where he _could_ have changed behind a privacy curtain, he stripped almost bare, showcasing miles of rippling muscles and a brand-spanking new pair of undies. He shimmied towards the camera, giving whatever security guard who happened to be on that day a little show. With a wink to the camera, he turned around and shook his ass.

"The hell are you doing?"

That was a voice he'd know anywhere.

Josh McDaniels, Offensive Coordinator to the New England Patriots. Rob had spent _plenty_ of time listening to the man's solid advice and more often than not, had followed his instructions unless Tom or Bill fed him field advice that conflicted.

"Gettin' my groove on, Joshy boy. Shake what your momma gave you, am I right?" he laughed, going in for a high-five. The coach humored him and delivered a quick slap.

"Cut it out. Get dressed and get to work or Bellichick will be in here faster than you can say 'interception.' Go on. He's displeased that you're late."

Rob giggled but nodded, hurrying to tug on his practice gear. Five minutes later, he jogged out onto the field where his teammates were already doing warm up laps back and forth across the field where cones had been set up as something of an obstacle course. Bill was nowhere in sight.

"Hey, where's coach?" Gronk asked as he stood beside Gilmore on the sidelines, reaching towards his toes to stretch out those hammies before trying to run.

"You haven't heard?" Gilmore replied, eyes wide as all hell, voice dark and scratchy. He looked possessed.

"Uh, no, clearly not?"

"Rumor has it, he's signing a free-agent today. One that's going to help us beat the Steelers in the playoffs."

Rob's brows scrunched as he tried, really hard, to understand what on God's holy Earth number 24 was saying to him. It was confusing at best. His left hand released his ankle, allowing his foot to crash against the ground as he looked out at the rest of the team.

"Cool."

Rob went to join in the warmup laps, but it was the voice of someone entirely unexpected but 100 percent welcome that called out to him, making him stop dead in his tracks.

"Rob, my man!"

It was Julian Edelman.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen up all my Patriots die hards, this year is already epic. You hear?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bringing it back to Brady's POV, gayer than ever (as usual).

_Edelman's voice_...

Brady’s gaze snapped to the left to catch sight of its source. He spotted none other than #11, his favorite receiver in the flesh walking towards Gronk as they both reached out to embrace each other, and in that moment Brady felt things happening in his chest, things that immediately sacked his nerves.

He momentarily saw double. First Brady couldn't help but see the old Edelman in uniform, sleeveless in red gloves, mussy hair and a huge beard, war paint replicating his own. However, Brady also he saw the _new_ Edelman; clean shaven with a shorter haircut, dressed in regular exercise clothes, smiling brilliant and easy. 

Football in hand, Brady observed his friend. The image of his old Edelman, a loosened rose petal of a memory, withered away. It was that bearded man with sandy cow-licked hair that Brady hadn't been able to get his mind off of... not this new, clean-cut almost too gentle family man. 

Brady tried to hide the way he felt, tried so hard to plaster on a smile but nothing became of it. He took a step towards Edelman. "Hey Jules-"

 _"Julian!"_ Amendola bellowed, racing past Brady to grab a hold of Edelman's hand before puling him into a bro hug. 

Brady gulped and forced his concerned expression downwards, appearing antagonized by blades of grass. _Not enough biscuits_ , he thought to himself in an attempt to remain cool as Edelman and Amendola patted each other's backs ~~way more times than necessary~~. _Should've baked more biscuits, should've used MORE butter_. Or... or maybe... maybe the biscuits had nothing to do with it... goddamnit.  ~~One too many goddamn concussions screwing his thought process again~~. 

"Tom! Aye. What up, no call no text?" Edelman smiled, heading over to Brady. 

Normally it would take every bone in Brady's body to _not_ wrap his arms tight around Edelman but today he had no energy, no spunk. "Phone works both ways, babe." And although Edelman chuckled and nodded in agreement, Brady mentally kicked himself for the twenty-millionth time for allowing the pet name to slip past his lips on the field. "How you- how you feelin'?"

"We all know I been better but my will feels relentlessthough. Just trying relentlessly to recover."

"Yeah," Brady nodded thoughtfully, "Yeah, tha's good t'hear." He licked his lips, usually doing so helped his word pronunciation whenever it started to falter. "Keep at it, 'cause, Jules. Want you back in the game."

"You and I both, but we gotchur back, bro," Amendola grinned, joining in on the conversation. "He'll be back, stronger than ever. I'm sure of it." Amendola directed the comment to Brady, who nodded in agreement.

"Thanks, Dola." Edelman patted his buddy on the arm before heading towards the coach, Amendola hot on his heel. Brady heard Edelman asking about the Ice Caps before he decided to take a quick break. 

He jogged towards the locker room and began rummaging through his personal belongings: four cans of shaving cream, body oil, a whole avacado, a bag of electrolytes, fifteen pairs of socks, his cell phone (which he checked and spotted another text from that number he hadn't recognized on Christmas: _better bring your a-game to practice today_. Who the hell was texting him?) Before Tom could reply he felt a tap on his shoulder. 

"Hey, yeah babe?" ~~Shit, did it again~~.

"THEY GON' KILL ME." 

"Uh, _what?"_ Tom turned to look into the face of STEELER wearing a PATRIOTS jersey. Oh, this was happening again. Suddenly and intensely, Tom tapped the side of his skull exactly three times.

"WHAT THE HELL YOU DOIN?" 

"I'm hallucinating from stress. You're not real."

"NO, I AM REAL!! JUST SIGNED WITH Y'ALL BUT MY TEAM GON KILL ME FO' DOING IT."

"Wait, you're ... actually James Harrison then?"

"YEAH." Harrison's eyes seemed permanently wide. "AND THE STEELERS GON KILL ME CAUSE I ABOUT TO SHARE ALL THEY SECRETS."

"Don't be silly. They don't have enough money to afford weapons; they’re homeless." Tom motioned for Harrison to sit beside him on a bench. "Talk to me, but feel free to lower your voice." 

"AH CAN'T. IT AIN'T IN MAH NATURE TO DO SO." 

"No problem, just start from the beginning and tell me everything. You can trust me."


	4. Stealing a Steeler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are heating up for the Patriots. One injured teammate in particular is feeling the pressure from a new player.

Julian's wrist vibrated.

With a quick twist of his arm, the face of his black and gold Apple Watch lit up, indicating notifications from the NFL official _and_ the Patriots official Instagrams. No one was aware of _who_ ran these pages, exactly, but Edelman _knew_ it was a teammate. The photographs of each of his teammates privately practicing was enough to indicate _that_ much. His bet was on number 28- _James White_. The guy was  _notorious_ for taking secret pics of them all. After scoring the winning touchdown in Super 51, well, some things had gone to White's  _head,_ and Julian could  _not_ be sure just _which_ head.

Rob and Danny bid Jules a temporary farewell as Bill gathered them round for an announcement and practice instruction; though Julian noticed that Tom had, instead, veered towards the locker room before anyone could say ' _touchdown_.' He squinted towards the massive doors.

"Avocados," he exhaled.

Julian took a seat on the sidelines and hunched into himself for an _attempt_ at shielding his exposed skin from the cold, and removed his phone. A single, gloved finger tapped on the stylish Instagram icon and he quickly caught his notifications.

The NFL page had re-posted a brand, spanking new photograph from James Harrison, a rogue Steelers' player that Julian had more than enough encounters with on the field to realize he was one, tough bastard. A linebacker with broad muscles and  _almost_ as much experience as Brady himself, he'd been a long time threat who had, in recent months, been frequently sidelined in favor of younger rookies. The photo took a moment to load before fully consuming on his screen.

"Holy Schnauzer," he mumbled, his eyes bulging and double, triple, _quadruple_ taking the image. That was _definitely_ Tom Brady and _most certainly_ James Harrison, TOGETHER, _positively_ **inside** the Patriots' locker room - he'd recognize that place _anywhere_ after all his post-game, post-practice showers and _other_ extra curricular activities in there (that was, of course, before the cameras had been installed).

Was this _photoshop_? That could be the _only_ explanation. Was the NFL playing a prank? From his count, they were _months_ away from April Fool's Day.

So what was going on?

Julian _nearly_ fumbled his phone, the slippery device threatening to slide between silk, black gloves (he had _wanted_ to get red, but no. Not this year. He did not earn them this year), but managed to recover it before he clicked on the link to James's page, snapping up that bizarre photograph again. This time, Jules read the caption.

 

 **jhharrison92** Finally... A teammate that’s older than me! ** _tombrady_**

 _Posted five minutes ago._

**T E A M M A T E**.

Did this _mean_ what Julian _thought_ it meant? 

James fucking Harrison had signed with the New England Patriots. What a fuckin' day to make a surprise visit. 

Julian glanced up just in time.

There, in the flesh, running out of the locker room in full gear and all his forty-year-old glory was Tom 'Five-Rings' Brady. Beside him, just a couple of steps behind, was a monster of a man. Tom had _started this_ tradition. Running out as a _team,_ and not as a line of players. They were _not_ robots, but friends. Teammates. Brothers.

Beautiful, dark-skinned, and pliable as ever, the old Linebacker who was just _several months_ Brady's junior, burst from the locker room  _with_ Tom, not as an enemy, but as a friend.

The entire team erupted in simultaneous applause as Bill 'Old School' Belichick wore the _subtlest_ trace of a smile and outstretched his hand in welcome. Instantly, James Harrison had fallen into a hug with Coach and was subsequently welcomed by the team with a round of enthusiastic embraces. Julian could not help but stare. The ordeal dragged on and on and on.

Last, but certainly far from least, Tom shook James's hand with rather incredible vigor and then brought his new teammate into a raucous hug. Not a second later and James was flat on his back with Tom Brady on top of him. Julian could do nothing but watch from a distance as two of the oldest players in the NFL, and certainly on the Patriots' team, wrestled in a playful greeting as the boy's circled them, chatting and laughing boisterously.

This was big.

"THEY'S GON KILL ME!" 

"No way, babe! We got you!"

Just there, somewhere deep in the pit of his belly, the most furiously strange sensation exploded. It wormed all the way to his thudding heart and then down, down to each of his gloved fingers and each of his toes. At once, Julian _swore_ he was going to vomit and laugh and cry and shout all at the same time.

_What the **hell** was this feeling? _

Julian stood up quite suddenly. 

"That's fine."

He hadn't meant to say it aloud. Hadn't meant to be overheard, but suddenly there was Dola. Danny had jogged over, a brilliant smile on his sharp, angular face.

"What's that, bro?" he asked. "You good? Need some electrolytes? Brady's always got extra. Think I smelled guac on him, too..." Amendola trailed off as a distant look lingered in his gaze. _~~Too many concussions~~. _ "Sorry- you good? Wanna hit up Chipotle? Brady put me in the mood, man."

 _"Yeah,_ yeah," Jules replied. "Sure thing. So, James Harrison, huh? Whachu think about that, man?"

But he did not hear Danny's answer. Something else had caught Edelman's attention.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this. Really! TRULY. I hope it helps get you through the stress of the 2017 season, man. We're almost there.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gonna give Amendola a run here. Most everyone's still gay.

Danny Amendola gently itched the back of his neck as he considered Julian's question. "Frankly, I'm not sure if I trust him. I know what the Patriots represented to the Steelers and how are we to be sure he's even in this for the right reasons... for the team, the family. This is everything to me and forgive me if I'm just doubtful we should be enthusiastic without any skepticism." 

But Edelman remained silent, staring down at his own cell phone.

Danny pressed his lips together and squinted just a bit, waiting for a reply. When he didn't receive one he decided to say, "Julian?"

"Oh, huh? Sorry I was uh," Edelman swallowed down whatever it was he was going to say and put his phone away. "What'd you say? Sorry I just got a text." 

Danny nodded, pulling in a deep breath. "Um, just, nothing important, just. What do you say we go eat? I'm starving." 

"Yeah for seriousness. Let's get outta here." Edelman practically scoffed, falling into line with Danny as they both headed towards the locker room. 

"Leaving already?" Brady called out, jogging over towards them wearing a smile brighter than the sun. Danny's heart skipped a beat the way it always did when Brady gave him this much attention. The man's presence was overwhelming and it was no wonder that Edelman was as in deep as he was. Yeah, Danny knew. 

Danny knew all about it. ~~Wish he didn't, but he did~~. How could he compete with Brady's model-esque features, chiseled body, impossibly incredible scent at all times somehow. ~~Probably a direct result of his diet~~. Yeah, no, Danny Amendola knew he didn't stand a chance against Tom Brady when it came to winning Julian Edelman's affection. He'd long ago accepted it for what it was. Even suspected there'd already been some kind of secret affair had between the two.

Edelman glanced nonchalantly over his shoulder at Brady, "Yeah, we're getting chipotle." 

"Oh... nice," Brady's smile stayed put even as he shrugged, eyes and voice filled with disappointed. He leaned in closer to Julian and Danny. "This is great though, right? You know he's gonna tell us everything he knows about the Steeler's offense." 

"What's he gonna know, he barely even played the field..." Julian grumbled.

"Yeah but we'll take what we can get. The guy's _pissed_ at the Steelers." Brady said reassuringly. 

"He seems a little scared too, though." Danny interjected, "What if he breaks under the pressure of playing _against_ them?"

"A bridge we'll cross when we get to it." Brady promised. 

"What if it's already burnt." Julian stated coldly, locking eyes with Tom. Danny noticed that the tone of the conversation had shifted in that moment, but hoped it wasn't because of the tension between Tom and Julian. Danny noticed the way Brady stared back at Julian without even attempting to look away. Danny even noticed the adam's apple of Tom's throat as he swallowed. 

"Then we rebuild it." Said Tom. 

"What if it's _too late_ for that shit?" Julian instantly shot back. 

"Uhh.." Danny tried his best to apply the metaphors to the situation with Harrison, but simply couldn't. "Guys, I'm... a little confused." He chuckled nervously, suddenly feeling a little out of place.

"It's not important," Julian said as he turned, "C'mon, Dola." 

Danny noticed the tongue in cheek way Tom lifted his chin and stared up to the sky before turning and jogging back towards the team. 

"You two okay?" Danny asked Julian. 

Julian nodded, "Sure we are, why wouldn't we be?" 

Danny shrugged, bumping shoulders with Julian as they walked. 

And if Brady happened to notice then he was too far away, in more ways than one, to have anything to do with it.

* * *

After a solid 3 or 4 minutes of taking steps backwards and pretending to throw the ball, Brady took a seat next to Gronk on the bench and opened his mouth, tilting his head back.

Gronk squirted some gatorade into Brady's mouth. 

Brady immediately choked and sputtered, struggling to spit the liquid out. 

"OH GOD, OH SHIT -- TOM!!" Gronk jumped to his feet, dropping the bottle and spinning wildly in search of  help. 

Brady grabbed at his throat and gasped for air. 

Gronk made panicked noises and kept gesturing for another moment before grabbing onto the back of his head. "TOM, DUDE, TOM..."

Bill Belichek seemed to materialize out of thin air besides Gronk. "Everything okay over here?"

Gronk was breathing hard. "I don't.. I don't..."

Bill took in the scenario, spotting the fallen water bottle. "He thought it was water. He's okay." 

Tom waved an arm, barely managing the word, " _Yea_."

Gronk turned to look at their coach but the man was already gone somehow. Then he began to apologize repeatedly as Brady leaned forward and blinked the tears from his eyes. Just then Brady got up and shoved at Gronk's chest, "Fuck off, dude." He stormed away. 

Gronk went into a shocked and confused silence.

Brady knew he shouldn't have taken his anger out on the one person he was closest too, but he couldn't help it. He turned at shot the dirtiest look he could manage Gronk's way before heading into the tunnel towards the locker room. 

 


	6. Something's Cookin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are starting to get weird at Patriot Place.

"COOKIE!"

He was not going to lie. It was damn hard being called _Cookie_ , especially when the teammate he had learned from the most, the teammate he had  _watched_ on television for nearly as long as he was alive, was called the **GOAT** , and not because he resembled a Billy goat in any way, shape, or form. Cookie, somehow, felt a little... _lame..._ in comparison.

Brandin's feet came to a sudden halt as he spun around with a smile on his lips. The twenty-four year had dreamed of being a Patriot since childhood and now, his forth year in, he'd earned his chance to showcase his talents thanks to an incredibly unfortunate injury to one Julian Edelman. The two wide receivers were buddies, sure, but _god_ did Brandin Cooks long for the chance to make some big scores that would put his name on the map. In previous years, he had made some plays, but it was some of the other, older players that had been relied upon most for those scores.

This year, however, this year was _different._

"What's good, Matt?"

Number 18, Matthew Slater, team sweetheart, came jogging up behind him as Brandin trudged to his car - a _brand new,_ white BMW purchased on a bit of a whim. The screen time he'd gotten this season was _definite_ cause for celebration and as he always said, _go big or go home._

"Oh, just wanted to say-- have a good night, kid! You did _great_ at practice today," Slater said with a smile before he reached out and affectionately touched Brandin's shoulder. Cooks nodded, forcing a smile in return. 

"Thanks, man. You too."

"I'll see you tomorrow! Coach wants us at 7 so we can all, _as a team,_ help transition James. I saw you slip out before you could hear," Matthew informed him, smiling brightly. Brandin was known for taking _extra long_ showers and often started before the rest of the team. While Gronk's motto was _'you earn the stink_ ,' Brandin's had become ' _you scrub the stink away ASAP_.' Yes, he was _proud_ of his accomplishments and his team, but he did not need to showcase them in the form of body odor.

"Oh, yeah. Okay! Thanks. I'll uh-- see you bright and early then," Brandin replied, unlocking his car door with his automatic key chain.

"No problemo, friend. I'll be bringing some smoothie ingredients and some whole wheat bagels for breakfast for everyone!"

"Awesome. Love those bagels," Brandin replied. "See ya."

"Later, friend!"

Brandin placed his practice bag in the trunk before he hurried around to the front, sliding in the driver's seat. It wasn't until he locked the door and shifted into reverse, his body pivoting to keep an eye out behind him that he noticed the figure laying in the back seat.

"AHHHH!"

"AHHHHHHH!"

"DUDE! WHAT THE FUCK?"

"SORRY!"

James Harrison had popped up quite suddenly, his brand new, bright blue Patriots jersey a good contrast against his skin tone. Why Brandin was noticing _that_ of all things was beyond him.

"The hell are you _doing,_ man?"

"I NEED A RIDE!"

"How'd you even get in? Wasn't it locked?"

"SORRY, BRO! LET'S GO! THEY COMIN'!"

Brandin squinted, his brows furrowing as his eyes shifted to the side. With a long exhale, he turned around and faced the front again as he shifted into drive and turned to leave Patriot Plaza.

There was a long moment of silence as Cooks slowly drove towards the exit, the many pedestrian's shopping at the nearby mall-area and dining in one of the many restaurants getting in his way. A few even stopped to stare, somehow _knowing_ he was on the team. It wasn't often he was recognized in public, even here, at Patriot Place. To most fans, he was not yet a household name, but Cooks knew he was climbing that ladder, and quickly. Those that did know exactly who he was were most accustomed to seeing him in his uniform and helmet and not in everyday, civilian clothing.

With a long exhale, Brandin broke the silence.

"Why the Patriots, man? Why not sign with the Steelers again?"

It was unclear what happened. James Harrison was a legend, and Brandin had heard recent tales about the older gentleman being cut free. A free agent. Some said that he'd _begged_ to be let go, and while the Steelers had _no plans_ on utilizing his great skill on the field (they were a shallow team that cared more for the appearance of the players than their potential skill), they had thus far refused. At long last, it seemed James's wish had come true.

He was free and it was the New England Patriots he had turned to for another shot at his long-term football career.

"WELL..." James paused and Brandin shot a glance in his rear view to catch a glimpse of the man who sat in the center seat, eyes wide and shifty. "Always _dreamed_ of playing with a teammate that was older'n me. Plus, that BILL BELICHICK IS A LEGEND. I want his GUIDANCE."

Brandin nodded, understanding. There was no coach greater than Bill. Brandin had known that since he was just a boy.

"BELICHICK TALKED TO ME FOUR YEARS AGO! THIS WAS _ALWAYS_ THE PLAN!"

"What?" Brandin asked, confused. James bit down on his fist. Clearly he'd said something he wasn't supposed to. "Yo, it's fine, you don't have to tell me--"

"--Oh yeah, guy's a genius. DIDN'T YOU KNOW? It's part of the plan."

"The plan?"

"THE PLAN!"

Brandin licked his lips and stared ahead, his foot sinking into the acceleration pedal as the light turned green.

"The _plan_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING. <3 <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brady's gayer than ever. As usual. However, the recent win against the Jets just made him (and everyone else) gayer.

Defeating the Jets had been nothing more than a (very cold, freezing in fact) breeze. Inside the locker room the boys worked at clawing their uniforms off and washing themselves off. There wasn't any need for privacy (since no one actually knew that Tom had installed security cameras after the stolen jersey incident), and usually everyone ran around half naked in towels dripping either sweat or water, cheering or mumbling depending on the mood of the night. Tonight there was most _definitely_ reason for cheer. 

A crisp white towel hugged Tom's heated skin as he made his way towards the showers alongside Dion Lewis, shoulders bumping and all. All smiles, Dion happily kept on rattling off comments about how he just didn't even expect to perform so well tonight while Brady simply nodded, occasionally throwing in a compliments. 

Just then Brady's arm moved, hand reaching to cup the small of Dion's back. One shirtless Danny Amendola watched on. He always watched. He noticed _everything.._. 

"Unnecessary roughness my ass!" A shout followed by a loud noise erupted from Danny's left, so he turned his attention.

What he saw was Stephen Gilmore attempt to tackle his locker area. 

Danny winced as he watched his fellow patriot get unnecessarily rough with his tiny closet space. Drawing a heavy breath, Danny ventured over to Gilmore and leaned against the nearby wall, completely calm as he said, "Yo, man --- chill."

Gilmore straightened up, eyes wide as he straightened up and tried to neaten the braids of his hair. 

Danny lifted an eyebrow at the mess Gilmore had created of his space. "Is that... a skull?"

Gilmore instantly bent to retrieve the skull and hold it behind his back, "Uh.. naaaah, nahhh. No. That's..." he smiled and nodded, "That's a gift from my moms yo. Just like, a halloween decoration, you know?" 

"Is that a book of black magic spells?" Danny asked, pointing to a book on the floor titled _Black Magic Spells_.

Gilmore kicked it back into his locker space and grabbed his shirt off the bench, throwing it over the book. "Nahhhh, yo. That uh... uh... uh a... a recipe book, you know?"

Danny shrugged, nodding. "Really?" He felt mildly suspicious.

"Yeah, just like.. uh... Italian food. Like pasta. Yea." Gilmore nodded some more, slower and more confidently. 

Danny considered it and nodded back, "Love me some pasta."

"Yeah dog. Me too, me too." Gilmore took a deep breath and wiped a bead of sweat from his brow with the arm he wasn't using to still hold the skull behind his back. "So Dans, whatchu up to? You gon' shower?"

"Yeah, yeah.. I just... don't you think it was _weird_ how Harrison didn't stand with us during the anthem?"

Gilmore lips sunk into a considerate frown, "Well, I mean. Dude's weird. I don't really know him yet."

"Yeah. Me neither. All right I'm gonna shower." 

"Aight." Gilmore cleared his throat and watched as Danny left, turning to watch him leave, never once letting him see what was behind his back. 

* * *

"I was just like on fire tonight!" Dion yelped into the steam of the running hot showers that he, Brady and a few other teammates were all under. 

"Brady was too." Brady said, licking his lips.

"Yeah! Yeah, you were, man! You were!"

They both smiled and laughed. 

Brady clapped Dion on the shoulder and let his hand linger, sliding down the raw muscle after a second too long. 

"Too bad Julian wasn't here." Danny stated firmly from the doorway. 

Both Brady and Dion turned their heads to watch Danny hang his towel up and walk towards his own shower. Dion quickly turned his attention back to his shower while Brady's eyes roved over Amendola's bare skin. He forced his gaze to the ground and went back to rubbing soap into his skin. 

Amendola felt agitated for reasons he couldn't quite pin point. He hadn't performed well tonight, that much he knew, but Dion Lewis _did_ , and Brady being _all_ over Dion felt off. "Hey Tom, ready for our New Years party?"

"What? Uh, well. Yeah, I sure am. I'm thinking they're gonna want Dion over here for the post game interview _tonight_ , so," he smiled at Dion who beamed back at him. "You know, we all gotta party it up. We have everything to celebrate about." 

What irritated Danny the most was that Brady hadn't even taken his eyes off of Dion to respond to him. 

"Jules is gonna be there tonight, at our New Years party." Danny said.

That got Brady to look away from Dion. 

Danny's heart thudded hard as he went at it with the dove soap, scrubbing his body like it was 1999. Something was bothering him, something was off. His mood was just... off. 

"You're--you're doing really great out there, you know." Brady mentioned, causing Danny's actions to slow. "Covering for Jules, I mean. Did so well this season." When Danny looked over at Brady he saw a million dollar smile there and felt himself blush. And just like that, suddenly _everything_ felt off. (Couldn't help but notice the way Dion was nodding in agreement.) 

"We're gonna have to make sure Julian doesn't feel left out tonight..." Danny blurted out, unsure of his entire life's existence. 

Brady's brows furrowed as he thought about it. "I think he'll be fine about it, he's a good kid like that." 

"You'd know, wouldn't you?" Danny muttered.

"Why would he know?" Lawrence Guy, #55, chimed in quite suddenly, head covered in foamy white soap. 

Brady laughed as thought it was a joke but Guy stared hard at Brady for a moment before glancing back towards Danny. "Edelman really is a great kid." He cleared his throat and continued to scrub at his soapy scalp.  

There was a sudden loud rattling as Gilmore joined the men in their shower room, a necklace of bones around his neck. He self consciously used his hands to try to cover it. 

Brady and Dion didn't seem to care but Danny narrowed his eyes in concern. Before he could say anything Chris Hogan, #15, laughed and said, "Oh hey Gilmore, I saw that necklace on the discovery channel last night. Isn't that like a rare Nigerian voodoo artifact?"

A sudden chorus of _Dude! Dudddde! Woah, Jesus Christ, dude! Come on, dude! Don't be like that, Hogan!_ flooded the shower room.

Gilmore sighed. 

Hogan appeared shocked, "What! No, I... I didn't mean it like that! I just... I thought..." Hogan trailed off, suddenly all too reluctant to continue speaking. 

Danny braced his hands on the wall ahead of him, allowing the hot steamy water to wash away the sweat and grime. Wished it could wash away his irrational confusion and frustration. Brady hittong on Dion behind Julian's back? Julian would be upset. And Danny wasn't sure why, but that simple fact alone that upset him. But Brady complimenting him like he just did? Why did that feel _so_ good? He bit down on his lower lip and closed his eyes, shutting the world out.

Boy did he need a drink. He had every intention of going _extremely hard_ during tonight's New Year's party... little did he know he would do exactly that, and in more ways than one.


	8. Popping Bottles, Not Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The New Year's Eve party is in full swing, but some Patriots players are having more fun than others.

"Can you take a step back, sir?"

"What?! What do you _mean,_ take a _step back?"_

Julian took a defiant step forward, invading the space of a hardworking bar staff. The man was holding a massive tray, full of flutes of sparkling wine. He wore a white, shiny vest atop his elegant, black, pressed, button-down, like the rest of the staff, and Julian Edelman, wide receiver of the New England Patriots was threatening to knock over the _entire thing,_ which undoubtedly would cost him his whole paycheck for the week. What was he supposed to _do_ in a situation like this?

"No, I know, I'm sorry, I just-- I don't want to drop this, sir."

"Look, it says that if someone is in my way, I can be in their way."

Julian was _insistent_ , and he was beginning to raise his voice. Somehow, in the heat of the moment, he hadn't noticed Rob Gronkowski and Dont'a Hightower closing in around him to offer moral support- or, simply, to see what the conflict was about. Edelman's voice sometimes got out of control. Eager and high-pitched, he was a tough nut to reign in when he got into a screaming match. That was _probably_ why they called him the squirrel.

"I understand I just--"

"I'm _so sorry,"_ Julian intercepted. "I am a really _defensive_ person and it's my New Year's Resolution to cut that out. I should be on the _offense,_ instead."

"Yeah, man, don't listen to Jules. He's getting squirrely over here," Rob chimed in, wearing a big, goofy grin across his pliable features. "C'mon, Jules. Have a drink and relax, bro." Gronk plucked two glasses of champagne off the tray, handed one a piece to Dont'a and Julian- two of his favorite teammates that had, sadly, been injured for the _whole season-_ and took another for himself.

"Cheers!" Dont'a shouted, clanking his glass with Gronk's then Edelman's before knocking it back and bouncing away. Julian's eyes narrowed as he watched the linebacker move through the crowd. He swore he could heard the guy scream ' _cramp!'_ before he disappeared behind a group of people.

"Cheers, man!" Gronk exclaimed, taking a Gronk-sized sip from his drink. He was more of a cocktail or beer drinker, depending on the mood, but with the AFC Championship, the first seed position, a first round bye, and home field advantage now secured under their belt, Gronk was ready to let loose. "Here's to 69," he paused to release a low giggle, "receptions for the year!"

Julian managed a laugh, but his joy didn't quite meet his eyes. Life was so simple for Rob Gronkowski. He was still a kid, really, whose maturity matched that of a high schooler. He brought out the best in the whole team, sure, but Julian's thoughts were a mess tonight. This wasn't the way he wanted to start 2018, but what choice did he have?

James Harrison had managed five tackles, two sacks, and a forced fumble in his first and only game with the Patriots; which was more than he could say for his accomplishments with the Steelers over the past season. Tom and Bill were pleased as punch at their newest player's performance. Maybe _next time,_ he'd actually stand with the group during the National Anthem.

Dion Lewis had easily become the star of the game as Tom's favored running back of the night with two touchdowns and 136 yards. Danny, on the other hand, had made a few _big_ mistakes and had gotten himself a solid talking to by the Quarter Back. He blamed himself, of course, as Danny did, but Julian had _not_ missed his friend's comment about Tom and Dion in the showers. He swore he'd also heard something about Gilmore's black magic, but that might have been in his head because he'd found himself so distracted with thoughts roaming to post-game showers of years past.

_"Hey babe, pass me my shampoo."_

Edelman winced and whipped around, the sound so _real_ he swore he could hear Tom's voice right then and there. Arms flung in a wide circle and Julian's loose fists came into contact with Tom Brady's hard, but pliable body. 

"Ohhh- I'd call a flag on that one!" Gronk exclaimed, high-fiving the nearest bystander- number 19, Malcolm Mitchell.

"Unnecessary _roughness!"_ Malcolm joked, tucking his favorite kid's book into his back pocket to bump chests with Gronk. The sheer force caused Malcolm to fly backwards, knocking into the bar staff, who recovered the now-empty tray before it clattered to the floor. "Oh shit, sorry man..."

"What'd you say?" Julian asked, ignoring Rob and Malcolm.

"Oh, I said _hey Jules, pass me a drink,"_ Tom replied, wearing a smile that didn't quite meet his eyes. Somehow, his smiles rarely ever met his eyes.

"Heck yeah!" Gronk was two steps ahead of them as he handed Tom a red-colored drink. "No Gatorade in that one, man."

"Ha. Tonight is a celebration," Tom replied calmly, trying his very best not to flinch at the mention of Gatorade. Tonight, Tom was going to let loose. No, he would _not_ find himself going _completely_ overboard, but he would certainly not limit himself to just water with electrolytes. They were first seed and on their way to a week off before the playoffs. "Hit me."

Gronk poured the drink into Brady's open gullet, allowing red juices to flow past his strained lips. Julian watched as a drop missed, dribbling down the Quarter Back's chin. He watched as Brady's Adam's apple bobbed against taut skin with each swallow. He watched as ice bounced off Brady's teeth and slid down his neck before falling to the floor by his feet.

 "I'm gonna go find Dola," Julian announced, turning his back to push his way through the crowd. His eyes wandered over each person in search of that familiar, _familiar_ face of one Danny Amendola. Julian saw Guy, Van Noy, and Trey Flowers standing in a circle, beers in hand as they watched Andrews shotgun. None were all too enthused, but it was clear his teammates were looking to party, and party _hard_ after a tough season. It was still early, yet, and he was willing to bet things would soon get rowdy with the way some of his boys partied. Harrison was there, too, but he stood solo against a nearby wall, his lips moving a mile a minute. It took Julian a few moments to realize that he was talking to Cooks, who was not really close enough to _appear_ to be engaged in conversation with him, but who was nodding in James's direction nonetheless. Julian moved on, nodding with a grin to Martellus Bennett and Rex Burkehead. He passed Hoyer and Hogan and James White, whose hand was positioned on an uncomfortable-looking Hogan's ass. He saw McCourty, Slater, Solder, and Develin louging on a couch, drinks in hand as they discussed words he could not hear. He saw Harmon and Bolden speaking quietly with Josh McDaniels and Bill Belichick.

But Julian did not see Danny.

With a sigh, Julian took a seat on a bar stool across from Stephen Gostkowski, who was engaged in a very _enthusiastic_ conversation with Ryan Allen, and removed his phone from his pocket to send a text to Danny.

 **Julian [10:22PM]:** Hey, man, where are you?

Julian nearly fumbled his phone when there was a sudden tap on his shoulder, causing him to flinch visibly. When he turned around, it was Tom Brady's dazzling face that met him.

"Hey Jules," Tom said. "We should talk."

" _Talk?"_

Tom remained rigid but nodded minutely. 

"Okay, let's talk." Julian slid from his seat with ease, his eyes scanning the crowd, but no one was watching them.

No one except Stephon Gilmore, but that, _that_ was something Julian had failed to notice as he and Tom slipped out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! We made it as first seed and secured a first round bye! Hopefully this will help get you through a Patriots-less week.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gay times get even gayer when gay football players are gay

Tom Brady shocked people when he drank liquor these days. Sure, back in his early twenties he could get away with eating and drinking whatever he pleased but these days he had to avoid  _tomatoes_ because they caused inflammation.

However every once in a while the pretty-boy quarterback felt a compulsory need to remind his younger, bigger teammates just how much he could still truly handle. Even at a lean 225 pounds, Tom Brady could throw back **more** beer faster and harder then _all_ of them (when he wanted to), linemen included, leaving them all impressed and respectful  _as usual_. 

Only problem was, unfortunately, along with his youth he'd lost most his alcohol tolerance. That, and Gronk had definitely fed him some sort of red hard liquor cocktail which Brady hoped to fucking  _GOD_ wasn't strawberry flavored. Tom would have snapped at his best buddy over yet another beverage if not for the more pressing matter of following one very beautiful squirrely wide receiver.

By the time Tom reached Julian at the bar he felt dangerously disoriented, but he didn't care. He needed him in every way right then and there. When Tom reached out to touch Julian's hip Julian shot Tom a look composed of panic and annoyance that Tom didn't much appreciate. Then Julian nodded towards the back, leading the way to a more private place, or so Tom hoped. Of course he followed Julian. 

"Got a lil Asian flush goin' on there, bro," Julian pointed out as they moved through the crowd. 

Tom laughed and said, "Aw Jules, you know nothin bout me is lil."

Julian laughed, playing it off like just another joke. No one heard anyways -- no one was paying attention or listening in on this. But still, it felt too risky while surrounded by this many people. It was a relief for Julian once the two men were outside and alone in silence, breathing cold crisp air. "What's gotten into _you_?"

"Me, getting into _you_."

" _What?_ "

"I dunno, I'm drunk as hell and all I can think of is how many calories I've consumed and how... even if you were like a thousand calories, I would _definitely_ consume you too." 

Julian stared at Tom, "That's an average sized meal, not even."

"I mean," Tom frowned, "I mean. You would probably only be like, eleven calories, like your jersey."

Julian squinted, "You ate my jersey?"

"No, man! I'm just," Tom moved in a little closer, "Tryin'a tell you how much I want you right now. Wanna mess around with you. Just _you_. Right now."

"Nah, man." Julian shook his head, looking down. "Pretty sure you're just drunk. I think we both know that we both already moved on."

Tom told himself he didn't care about the words he heard Julian say, and instead let his hands find their way onto the front of Julian's chest, let them roam and wander the soft feel of smooth cotton covering a very solid body. 

Julian went still and kept averting eye contact, not quite giving in but not pushing Tom away either. 

Being with Julian was easily the scariest thing in the world for Tom, because Julian was unlike anyone else for so many reasons. Their age difference alone, for instance, made Tom feel vulnerable and lame.

Never before had he been faced with the dilemma of being too _old_. Not _cool_ enough. How could Julian find someone like him appealing when he was surrounded by younger, slicker (buffer) men around his own age. Men like Danny Amendola and Dion Lewis. Men who weren't old and married and on the verge of retirement from the game that gave them life. 

However, with Edelman, Tom felt like maybe he wouldn't get burnt the way he did so many times before. Maybe there was more commitment, after all Julian had moved to California just to be closer to his quarterback. After Wes Welkers Tom thought for sure he'd sworn off the high running emotions on the field. Thought for sure that it wasn't a real thing, that the games were beautiful liars filled with adrenaline induced lust and pent up hours of tension in his muscles that only the roughest physicality could cure. Love for the game would always be the most important thing to everyone, himself included, and there was no such thing as putting love for something ~~or someone~~ _else_ ahead of that.

"Hey guys," Danny Amendola approached them casually adjusting his cufflinks. "Sorry I'm late." 

Brady went to straightening Julian's jacket lapels and then swallowed hard, pretending that's all his hands had been up to. He looked to Danny and licked his lips into a smile. "Don't be; party's just getting started. I need, uh, I need to go find Rob so I'll meet you on the dance floor." He lifted his eyebrows and headed back to the party. 

Danny waited until Brady disappeared to meet Julian's eyes. "I texted you back." 

"Oh, yeah sorry. Didn't check my phone yet." 

Danny shrugged. "Doesn't matter cause I'm here now anyways, right?" 

It would be a lie to say that looking into Julian's eyes didn't hurt Danny. There was something hot and wild and deadly in them, something that Danny would kill to know was intended for _him_. But in truth, he'd seen the interaction between Brady and Edelman and knew for a fact that the look in Julian's eyes had everything to do with the much older legendary quarterback who had returned to the party, and was likely bopping around on the dance floor like an ocean buoy. 

* * *

Gilmore stared down at the text on his android and hit send. 

 **Stephon Gilmore - > Tyrod Taylor (Ex-BuffaloBillsQuarterback) [10:30PM]:** _Brady didn't use the bathroom once tonight and he drank a SHIT TON OF beer. Something be mad weird about that dude bladder_.

He inclined his chin, a dark look to his eyes as he held back a devious grin. As far as Gilmore was concerned, anyone who was close to Edelman would pay the price ever since that August showdown during practice. For most players, the team meant family... but this was not the case for Stephon Gilmore. As far as Gilmore and his book of Black Magic Spells was concerned, it wasn’t a mere coincidence that Edelman tore his ACL during the preseason. Football was more than just a game. It was his passion, it was his battlefield, and as the saying goes- all is fair in love and war. 


	10. In The Closet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gayness is gay-ifying.
> 
> The Plan has been revealed to Brandin, but what will he do with this info?  
> Julian and Danny? Julian and Gronk? Julian and Tom? Tom and everyone? No one knows for sure.

"Tom, can we talk?"

Tom Brady was huddled over a gin and tonic, bought for him by one James White, number 28, who gave him an exaggerated wink before sending it down the bar. Brady was squirting drops of electrolytes into the drink. For hydration's sake, he knew that drinking in excess could deplete his body of _much_ needed electrolytes, so he'd begun adding some to each cocktail he chugged back. There was a _reason_ Tom Brady considered himself the most hydrated man in the world. That self-proclaimed title would not be stripped from him simply because he was going to relax and party for _one night._

His head pivoted quickly, almost too quickly, his vision blurring and nauseating with the movement before settling in on one Brandin Cooks.

"Yooooo, Cookieeee! Not that I eat cookies, hell nah," Tom said, extending a hand to give the other a high five, handshake combo with a quick pat on the shoulder with his other hand. "I mean, not _real_ cookies, ha."

"Ha, yeah," Brandin replied, his deep-brown eyes squinting towards the older man. The legendary Tom Brady, Quarterback of the New England Patriots, the Greatest of ALL Time, right there in the flesh, was drunk. It was a sight the young wide receiver never thought he might witness of the man who was nearly twice his age.

"What's up, babe? You need to talk?"

Brandin nodded, his gaze shifting to the side to make sure no one was listening. It appeared no one _cared,_ though he could see James Harrison in the distance, giving him a nod.

"It's James, man. He told me something that you really need to hear about. For some reason, he trusts only you, Bill, and I. He knows how dedicated you and Bill are to the Pats, and would never sell him out. Anyway, he mentioned something about a _plan?"_ Brandin paused to gauge Tom's reaction, wondering just how much the most-prized team member knew about the inner workings of Bill Belichick and his master plans for the team. Tom appeared to zone out, his gaze somewhere across the room.

"Oh."

"Oh? Well, uh, anyway. He told me how you and Bill agreed to trade Garoppolo to secure a bye? And as soon as James became a free agent, you agreed to sign him for-- well, a number of reasons. Mostly, to get the defensive information about the Steelers and gain a great player, but-- Edelman?"

It was as though life had been brought back into Tom's expression. His pupils expanded and his posture relaxed as he found Brandin's face.

"His contract was up," Tom said quietly, nodding.

"Did Gilmore?"

Tom's face contorted, his eyes squinting as he made the most subtle of nods, confirming Brandin's suspicions.

"Holy shit, man. I thought we were a fambloski..."

"FAMBLOSKI!"

"FAM-BLO-SKIIIISSSS!"

James White and Malcolm Butler heard the key word and shoved their way between Bradin and Tom, bumping chests with each other.

Brandin could say no more.

* * *

"Hey, Dola!"

_Why? Why now?_

It was Rob Gronkowski's distinct, booming voice that penetrated the far reaches of the coat room.

"Anyone seen Dola? Or Squirrel?"

Julian's fingers lingered on the zipper of Danny Amendola's slim-fit, black trousers. Face flushed, lips parted, his breathing uncontrolled, Julian could not recall the steps he had taken to get here. He could not recall the look in Danny's eyes when the other had shown up out of the blue, at exactly the right moment- or maybe the wrong moment. He could not recall how they'd wound up here, eyes locked as they fought their way through mountains of coats until Danny's solid back hit wall. They'd almost tripped in the densely-confined space that was somehow more sweltering than it should have been. It was hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to _see_ anything other than the warm color of Danny's eyes. He wasn't sure what he was doing or why or _how,_ but there they were, bodies pressed together in a _moment_ that was suddenly and at once interrupted by Rob Gronkowski.

"There you are!"

Through the coats, Rob barreled their way, knocking back thick material until he cleared a visible path. Julian instantly pulled away from Danny, turning so quickly he almost had a head rush. Gronk stumbled forward into him, his massive body hitting Julian almost full force. Had it not been for him babying his fucking leg for months after he tore his goddamn ACL, he might have been more agile. Instead, Julian fell backwards, his entire backside crashing into Amendola.

That was when he felt it. Against the smooth curve of his ass, through several layers of material, Julian Edelman was entirely aware of Danny Amendola's arousal. It surprised him and _excited_ him, making his mouth dry and his vision fade for just a moment, lost as to what else was happening. Danny's breath was against his ear and _oh god,_ for a _split second,_ he swore he could hear the other whimper ever so softly. And then-- with Rob Gronkowski pressed against _him,_ his own stiffening need poked the tight end right against the thigh. Rob stood up fast, like a rocket, laughing in that drunken way he laughed, entirely un-phased. Maybe he had not noticed.

"The hell you two doing in here, huh? Get lost? C'mon outta the closet, losers. Brady's demanding a dance battle," Gronk explained, laughing and red-faced as he shook his head. "Gotta give the old man what he wants, right?" His shirt was soaked through from excessive movement coupled with tightly packed bodies in small spaces and plenty of alcohol. No one partied like Rob Gronkowski. No one. In fact, it was rumored even their greatest enemies on the field longed to be invited to one of his epic parties.

Rob was the first to leave, allowing Julian just a moment to catch his breath. He slowly turned around and caught Danny's eyes.

"Yo, man, that--"

"What? Go to that dance battle, bro. We both know you're going to _whoop_ Brady's old ass," Danny interrupted, a lightness in his voice that did not quite meet his expression.

Julian knew how to take a hint. He swallowed and nodded just once, his hand moving to adjust his groin as he turned and walked out, leaving Danny alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey! New England is currently experiencing a bomb cyclone and the Patriots are legit practicing through it. Let's go boys!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> everything is gay and i have a hard time coping with the things that happen to me in my life.

Needless to say the dance battle went horribly on Brady's tight end, not that Brady could recall his awkward moves the following morning. Though if he _could_ , he would be less embarrassed, or perhaps more so, to also recall that he'd never actually demanded a dance battle at all in the first place, but rather he had dangerously admitted to having feelings for another player to the world's most heterosexual man in existence (apparently), Robert Gronkowski. It went a little something like this.  

> "Rob, Robby, RobRobRob... Rob..." Tom stammered loud as he could over the obnoxious blare of music, hand closing around Gronk's shoulder to jostle his attention. "Man --- can't do this no more, need to fuckin' _talk!_ " 
> 
> A giant smiling Gronk whipped around mid-dance to face Brady, and despite the distraught look on his buddy's face Gronk called out, " _AYE!!_ Thomas Edward Patrick Brady Junior right heeerrrreee in the flesh!!"
> 
> Tom's expression twisted from upset to confused and then back to upset. Momentarily dumbstruck, he tried for a smile but it couldn't be more forced.
> 
> Gronk clasped both his big, burley hands on Tom's face, cupping it, unable to stop shimmying for the music had already entered his body and soul. "The _best_ of the best of the BEST!"
> 
> Tom practically sulked in his friend's hold, not even realizing how badly he’d needed someone to _touch_ him like that, "Rob, Rob, please -- can we _talk_?"
> 
> And just like that, even amidst the flashing lights and blare of music, Gronk went completely still. His expression softened, mood inevitably meshing with Brady’s as though the two were connected by a greater force. Gronk searched Brady's face, "Yeahyeahyeah bro, what's up, what's up? Do you- do you need another drink?"
> 
> "No! I just, I'm sick of HIDING." 
> 
> Gronk's eyes widened and darted from left to right, "Who's hiding, Tom?!"
> 
> "Me." 
> 
> Gronk gasped, smiling once again, "I FOUND yooooou!"
> 
> Tom paused, confused again. "-wait, _no_ -"
> 
> "Can we get another shot for my mans here!"
> 
> As if by magic, a shot damn near immediately appeared in Gronk's hand. He held it out for Tom. 
> 
> Tom took the shot. 
> 
> "YEAH!" Gronk exclaimed, leaning in when Brady tugged. 
> 
> Tom leaned forward, mouth to Gronk's ear. "I think I'm gay!" 
> 
> "HELL YEAH!! TODAY'S OUR DAY!" Gronk nodded, repeating eagerly (or so he thought). He clapped his hands and let the music move his body again.
> 
> Brady shook his head, shouting even lourder, "I said _I think I'm gay_!!"
> 
> "YOU WISH IT WAS MAY?" Gronk shouted, shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head, hips still moving to the sound of a rap song. 
> 
> Brady threw his head back and groaned, arms bending at the elbow as he balled his fists. (This movement caught the attention of Stephon Gilmore.) Louder than ever, Tom shouted, "I FELL FOR JULIAN WHEN WE WENT AGAINST SEATTLE!!" 
> 
> (Gilmore's eye twitched.)
> 
> "YOU DEMAND JULIAN AGAINST A DANCE BATTLE?? Awhhhhh...  _HELL_ YES! I'LL GO GET HIM!" Gronk bounded off leaving Tom speechless. 
> 
> Ten minutes later he was nervously hopping in place, stepping from side to side as Julian pointed to his feet (Christ he felt old), _right there in front of him_ , clearly holding back his own slick moves so that Tom could appear less uncoordinated. Too drunk to do anything else, he danced like a fool. 

The memory came back in bits and pieces. More than anything, Brady was relieved Gronk hadn't taken heed of his confession. He went straight for the electrolytes, desperately needing to stave off whatever was left of his massive hangover. "Goodbye hangover," he murmured to himself.

Just then a text came through on his brand new phone. It read: _Counting down the days_.

Brady squinted at it, immediately feeling his phone go off with an incoming call, NFL ringtone loud in the air. "Who are you?" He demanded. 

"It's just me, Matt Cassel, the quarterback of the Titans!"

Brady's expression immediately fell, "Ugh, God. Why do you have to introduce yourself like that? And why do you keep texting me from an unknown number?"

"Um. Maybe because I'm proud of my position. And... sorry, but uh. I didn't text you. And like, I haven't texted you. In Foreva!!!"

Brady deadpanned, holding the phone against his throbbing head. 

"Just wanted to let ya know that I'm gonna beat those jaggys. And when I do, I'm gonna bend YOU over!"

"No." Brady replied instantly, hanging up at once. He took a deep breath, unable to handle just how horrible his headache had become. 

Once again his phone rang.

"THERE IS NOTHING BETWEEN US!" He cried out upon answering it. "Please just... don't talk to me. Stop calling me. Move on with your life." Once again he hung up, totally unaware that it was Julian Edelman who had just called and not Matt Cassel. 


	12. Countdown to Playoffs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions are high as the day of the first playoff game near. Who will be crowned victor?

As soon as Matt Cassel pressed the end button on his conversation with the _legendary,_ the _beautiful,_ the _unattainable_ Thomas Edward Patrick Brady Junior, he visibly cringed.

_Those Jaggys._

**How,** in four quarters, had he gone downhill so quickly? Pressing that 508 area code number into his texting/calling app had felt so liberating. He'd been so _certain_ of himself in winning a wildcard spot in the playoffs. This was their chance- their _chance_ to _finally_ make it to the Playoffs and then, with any luck, the Super Bowl. 

Matt wasn't stupid. He'd seen the predictions. _Everyone_ assumed the Patriots would be taking on the Vikings after Wentz went out on injury. The wildcard teams weren't even _considered_ a threat against the top four teams in the whole NFL. Yet, who better to defeat the ~~love of his life~~ goat once and for all? From the greater part of 2005-2009, Matt Cassel had spent nearly twelve hours a _day_ with Tom Brady. He'd studied his habits- from the way he _always_ tied his left shoe first to how he washed even _between_ his fingers after taking a piss. He'd studied his posture both on and off the field. He'd studied the exact way his arm curved into that _perfect_ arc, allowing for precise throws time after time after time. And when Tom sustained an injury, he had gone out and done his best to mimic Tom as the Quarter Back for the New England Patriots.

That was _before._ Things were different now. Brady had two more _glorious_ rings to his name. He was older, wiser, _better_ than ever before.

And his never-ending love for Tom Brady's perfect face and endless winning streak had not gone cold, despite what he might say.

_I'm gonna beat those Jaggys._

He was still reveling in the win from the night before, securing them a spot against the Kansas City Chiefs for the wildcard round. _Why_ had he said that? Had Brady even _noticed?_

"Fuck, Matt! You done messed up!"

He swung at his reflection, battering the fragile mirror with that single contact of fist against reflective glass. It broke into pieces against his porcelain sink. Blood trickled over rough knuckles, but he did not bandage himself. He did not deserve it.

Five days later, however, Matt made good on his promise in a way Brady had not seen coming. In the last moments of the game, the Titans defeated the Kansas City Chiefs by a single point, guaranteeing them a trip to Foxborough.

* * *

"Tell me again what he said."

"I _told_ you, man. He told me to _stop_ calling him and to move on with my life."

"What the hell, man. What's crawled up his ass?"

"I don't fucking know. I don't _care."_ He cared. "I'm not going to go _crawling back to him,_ begging for his _godly_ attention."

Rex Burkhead placed a hand on Julian's tense shoulder.

"It's the stress of the playoffs, you know that," Rex assured. Every time the Patriots entered the playoffs, which was almost _every_ year since Brady had been picked, he went into a bit of a frenzy. If anyone thought football was Tom Brady's _life source,_ they were right, but they had yet to see him during the playoffs. His behavior was of an entirely new caliber.

Julian shrugged.

"You're faring well, though, huh? Ready to be back in the game?"

"Sure am!" Rex beamed. At last, the long list of those out on injury had shrunk. Julian, however, Julian Edelman was _still_ out. The solitude had begun to drive him crazy and despite Danny's best efforts to keep him company, Bill's extensive practice schedule left Edelman in the cold more often than not. He'd busied himself with other things, but _none,_ none were so fulfilling as tugging on his ruby red gloves and catching a well placed throw in a game-changing moment. "Titans _should_ be an easy win, but you know they're going to bring it."

Julian nodded, his eyes distant.

"Ow!" he snapped suddenly, tugging his foot out of the boiling water as a small, Asian woman turned the heat up a little too hot.

"Sorry- here." She turned the faucet to cold, lowering the temperature. Self care was important when recovering from injury. He and Rex had taken _that_ notion quite seriously while 34 was out. At least it left him less lonely. Julian lowered his feet back into the water, nodding to the woman to signify it was better. She began with his injured leg, massaging oils along his calves with hot rocks. Julian found the tension in his shoulders relaxing.

"Thanks for coming with me, man."

"Yeah, bro, no problem." One of Rex's legs was bent at the knee, his foot resting against a warm, white towel as another woman scraped at his callouses. It was game day, but they weren't expected at Gillette for hours yet. He knew he needed to make time for Julian- one of the _best_ wide receivers on the team. Rumor had it, there was a chance he might not come back; but Rex had shrugged that idea off. There was no way in hell Bill would let go of Edelman, and he knew Julian had fierce loyalty, no matter _what_ Tom might say to him.

"What do you think about the Titan's plane delay?" Burkhead asked, holding back a snigger. Julian's eyes lit up, glad to lose himself in something other than his own thoughts- _Tom. Tom hated him. Tom didn't want to talk to him. Ever again. What had he **done?** Maybe it was because he'd unintentionally whooped Brady's ass at the dance competition that the Quarter Back so selfishly demanded in the middle of-- well, **whatever** had been happening with Danny in the coat closet. Did he know what he had been doing with Danny in the closet? _That was something he didn't want to think about. The other wide receiver had not brought it up since and neither would Julian. It was as though it'd never happened.

"No doubt the haters are already saying we cheated," Julian replied, rolling his eyes. Something could go wrong on the other side of the world, in a country none of them had ever heard of, that had somehow impacted a rival team's ability to play, and the Patriot's would _still_ get blamed. Nobody liked a winning team. "But, yo, unlikely they're gonna win anyway, right?"

"Nah," Burkhead replied. "After Miami, I don't think any of us are gonna let an underdog beat us again."

"Good, man. That's what I like to hear. Laser focus tonight, okay? Whatever happens, you make it to the next game, then the next. Get a ring for me, man."

And though there was a pain in his heart every time he thought about the New England Patriots and all he had missed this season, and perhaps even _more_ achingly, the words Tom Brady had screamed through the wide receiver of his phone, he loved his team.

* * *

 It was the morning of the first Playoff game after a Bye week. Tom Brady sat calmly at his breakfast table, a massive, empty class with nothing but the remnants of H2O and electrolytes in drops at the bottom sat in front of him. Next to the glass was his laptop. Each open tab flashed across his screen. This. _This_ would fuel him to win. **  
**

_THE GOAT? SOME SAY HIS TIME IS COMING TO AN END._

_TROUBLE IN PARADISE? BELLICHICK, KRAFT, AND BRADY NO LONGER THE DREAM TEAM._

_FIGHTING AT GILLETTE- COULD THIS BE THE END OF THE DYNASTY?_

_TOM BRADY NEEDS TO RETIRE. 40 AND NOT SO FABULOUS._

_BELLICHICK WANTED TO TRADE BRADY, NOT GAROPPOLO._

_WILL THE PATRIOTS CHOKE? SOURCES SAY YES._

_MATT PATRICIA RUMORED TO SIGN WITH THE GIANTS; IS THIS THE BEGINNING OF THE END?_

_POWER STRUGGLE BETWEEN TOM, ROBERT, AND BILL._

_GROWING TENSIONS IN GILLETTE MAY IMPACT PLAYOFF GAME._

It was _these_ articles that Thomas Edward Patrick Brady Junior drew his fuel from- _not_ the sources claiming tonight's game would be a blowout against the Titans. Let the haters hate. It was better fuel than avocados, than forty gallons of electrolytes, than 300 ounces of water, than everything he claimed true in his infamous TB12 method.

No. Tom Brady did not need his lean protein sources to pump him up.

There was a smile on his lips as he shut his computer, rose to his feet, and slung his Patriots-logo sports bag over his shoulder.

"Time for practice."

* * *

 

 **Stephon Gilmore [10:10AM]** \- From one former Bills to another, I know your secrets. I know your dreams. I know everything there  
                                                        is to know about you.  
 **Matt Cassel [10:10AM]-** Who the heck is this?  
 **Stephon [10:11AM]-** You have been warned. And that is all I owe you.  
        **Matt [10:11AM]-** Warned about what?  
        **Matt [10:15AM]-** Who is this?  
        **Matt [10:19AM]-** I played with the Bills for like 6 months. I don't even remember half of you.  
        **Matt [10:22AM]-** You don't scare me.  
        **Matt [10:23AM]-** I'm better now. Bills couldn't win their wildcard. We did.   
       **Matt [10:33AM]-** We'll be the one's to make the Patriots suffer. You mark my words.  
        **Matt [10:40AM]-** I have secret weapons you could never dream of.  
        **Matt [10:44AM]-** What do you mean you know my secrets and dreams?  
        **Matt [10:49AM]-** You're not talking about....  
        **Matt [11:01AM]-** How do you KNOW about that?  
        **Matt [11:04AM]-** No one knows I love him. No one.  
        **Matt [11:10AM]-** Hello?  
        **Matt [12:42PM]-** The Patriots will pay. Especially Brady.  
        **Matt [7:36PM]-** Mark my words. I hope you tune in.

Matt tucked his phone inside of his sports bag and secured the strap of his Titans helmet. They'd made it to Gillette, a worry deep in his gaze. _He'd been warned._ They'd gone through hell and high water, but they would make it. _I know your secrets._ And some ambiguous text would _not_ make him falter. _I know everything there is to know about you._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S GAME DAY, FRIENDS! Thank you for reading!  
> Let's go boys!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what should've been 3 blowout games ended up as 1 blowout (pats vs. titans, obv) and 2 shocking & humbling wildcard performances for (hopefully) everyone involved with them. that being said, things feel less gay... and more weird.

_You're not the only one who is one step closer..._

Tom stared down at the mysterious text on his phone, still unsure of who it was. At least he knew for sure that it wasn't Matt Cassel. Brady shook his head at the mere thought of Matt friggen' Cassel. It'd be a complete and total lie to say that he didn't dash off the field as soon as the game ended to avoid interacting with the other team's back up quarterback. Cassel had stared at Brady while licking his lips throughout the  _entire_  game, and it sent cold chills up Brady's spine every time he happened to notice. The game had been quite enjoyable aside from those creepy Cassel moments.

Brady downed his electrolyte infused water (not expecting to spit it out, which he would do in just a few seconds), mentally pushing the encounter with Cassel as far into the back of his mind as possible. 

"YOUR HIGHNESS." (This was the precise moment when Brady spat his water out.) "Thomas Brady  _SIR!_  Patriot number forty-six, that is four dash six, James Rittenhouse Develin, Jr. reporting for duty,  _SIR!"_  Develin screamed at the top of his lungs right into Brady's ear. Brady hadn't even seen him approach. 

Brady watched in horror as perfectly good electrolytes went to waste, spilling onto a table instead of flowing through his veins. "For hydration's sake..." he muttered as Develin stomped his foot military style into the pristine tiles of Brady's kitchen floor. "Yeah, yeah, um... how 'bout you leave first, and I'll wait a few minutes and leave after you." 

Develin saluted strictly and spun on his heels to ready his gear. 

Brady ran a nervous hand down his face. He hadn't realized Develin was so strict when he'd invited him over after the game. All he'd wanted was to touch another player, just a little bit. Someone who didn't seem the type to talk or spread rumors. Develin had been the wrong choice, clearly, but Brady hadn't been able to think straight, and if Develin hadn't popped up when he did in the locker room, Brady might've made an  _even worse_  mistake. 

He might've asked Danny Amendola to spend the night with him. 

It wasn't so bad with Develin though. Develin had insisted on letting Brady watch him do interpretive dance to the NFL theme a few times before Brady warily suggested they both go their separate ways off to bed. _Don't wanna be late for practice, right?_ Brady laughing nervously while saying it. Develin had blushed and agreed, and that had been the extent of their night together. 

* * *

"Góðan daginn!!!!!!!!!!!"

"HEI --Góðan morgin!"

"Sælir Góðan morgin!"

A flock of New Zealand quails erupted across the sky of the U.S. Bank Stadium, home of the forever forging forward Minnesota Vikings. Seventy-two western black rhinoceros began to gallop around the football field, creating quite the rumble as the Minnesota Vikings  gathered arm in arm to dance their morning routine. One foot here, another there; hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder; bopping along amongst one another; the stadium seemed to thrive with unearthly energy. A monotonous tone of masculine chanting boomed around the walls, traveling in the air back and forth and all around, filling each of the vikings with an optimial sort of triumphant spirit. "HUH! HOH! HUH! HAH! HUH!" They chanted aloud, doing high kicks and and back flips all along the turf. 

"HOH HOH HOH HOH!!" They each cried out in a war like fashion, tossing their heads back as they danced around the field. "HAH HOH HOH!!!"

One hundred dodo birds scuttled on along the sidelines, fifty on each side, quacking up a storm as the seventy-two western black rhinoceros continued their pounding run around everything. 

"RARRRRFFFFFPHHHHH!!" Cried Case Keenum, #7 quarterback of the Vikings, a mad gleam in his eye. Every animal and person came to a halt as the entire stadium went silent. Keenum turned his head slow from one side to the other, eyes wide as he inspected his surrounding. "RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" He called out. 

His teammates bowed their heads and grabbed onto the hand of the nearest person. 

Case Keenum whipped his sheep bone pan flute out and immediately shut his eyes upon playing a rather dark yet delightful tune. Each member of the offense began to hum a steady backdrop. " _Ooooooooooooohhghhh_." Each member of the defense snapped their fingers in a rhythmic beat. The wide receivers began to beat giant drums, the tight ends shook musical rattles. The running backs threw their arms into the sky as lightening bolted through the air, landing into the center of the field, right on the emblem Viking's team emblem. 

Adam Thielen, #19, was the first to break into happy tears, followed shortly by Andrew Sandejo. The two men walked towards each other and held hands, kissing each other's cheeks and foreheads. 

Even with his eyes closed, Case nodded as he played his panflute, approving of the embrace which he could feel without seeing. 

* * *

Amedola spastically awaited Brady's arrival, jumping into the air each time a new teammate arrived in anticipation only to softly murmur an apology. Perhaps _nobody_  would have noticed that Brady and Develin arrived almost simultaneously if Amendola hadn't been so hyper-focused on the detail of every single new presence. Something about the way Develin kept glancing over his shoulder and smiling at Brady. The corner of Amendola's mouth drew up in confused disgust. There was no way... 

"Hey Danny," Brady muttered it beneath his breath and Amedola felt a hand on his shoulder. His mouth felt dry. 

"Hey man, did you call Julian?"

"Won't he be here today?" Brady said with a sniff, voice still groggy. 

"Well, yeah." 

"Yeah so." 

"Yeah, yeah, no -- you're right."  Danny's eyes darted off to the left as he stood still as a statue. He cleared his throat.

* * *

 _Why's he being so weird?_ Brady thought to himself, blinking, watching Danny for a second before turning away to get changed and do some pliability stretches. He felt it all coming to a head, this horrible unmet need, all the tension in his muscles. As he slipped on his thigh pads he overheard something he really wished he hadn't.

"I swear man! I swear," Stephon Gilmore in his #24 jersey protested to Brandin Cooks in his #14 jersey. "I. Saw. Julian Edelman and Danny Amendola slip into a closet during the New Years party... _together!!_  I SAW IT."

Cooks sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Listen dude, there are jackets in that closet. THEY were probably GETTING THEIRS."

"NO!" Gilmore frowned. "I swear. I swear. That whole night I kept... seeing and hearing things.. and... I just, I dunno what to think."

"You just said it yourself, man!!" Cooks clenched his fists. "You're _seeing and hearing things..._ those are two tell tale signs of  _losing it!_ "

James Harrison popped up, "WHO LOST? DID THE STEELERS LOSE?"

Cooks released a powerful sigh. He hadn't slept the night before because Harrison had been too afraid to go home alone. "NO... they... they didn't play yet, Harrison!!!"

"I WAS JUST WONDERIN. I AIN'T PAYIN NO ATTENTION TO THEY SCHEDULE."

Cooks pleaded with his eyes. "I know you aren't. And I think that's wonderful, but perhaps you should try to branch out a little and you know, maybe spend some time with... someone else."

Harrison stared wide eyed, shaking his head from side to side in slow confusion as he if couldn't quite comprehend. 

Cooks shut his eyes. 

Gilmore flung his body between them. "Y'all just ignoring me, now. I see how it is. We all just gon' ignore errrrrything I just said."

Lawrence Guy in his #93 jersey groaned out, frustrated with the ENTIRE conversation. "Hey, Stephon -- no one is ignoring you. We just don't see what you're trying to say about Tom."

Gilmore looked confused. "...I wasn't even talking about Brady." 

After tugging his #15 jersey on, Chris Hogan chimed in, "Well I think he has a point about the Steelers..."

_"Hogan!" Woah, Hogan-- that was Stephon, not James!" "Simmer down, Chris!" "Hey back off, Hogan!"_

Gilmore slowly turned to face Hogan. "Did you _really_ just _mistake me_ for James Harrison? We don't even look alike, unless you lookin' at our skin alone."

Hogan's eyes were huge. "N-no, I was just... agreeing with him!" He threw his arm forward, and once more everyone groaned out long annoyed litanies of disgust, clarifying that Hogan was gesturing to Cooks, not Harrison. 

Chris Hogan could do nothing more than blink his eyes, for the two men were standing _right_ _next_ to each other. Maybe his arm should've been just a little more to the left? He frowned, apologized, and then sat down to put his shoes and socks on. 

Tom Brady had heard enough the second Gilmore mentioned Edelman and Amendola disappearing into the coat room. He grabbed his helmet and stormed out of the room. 

 


	14. Gotta Hand It To Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's some angst in the air. Will the gay win out? Will the Patriots remain the rightful heirs of their dynasty?   
> Future: unclear.

"WHAT YOU MEAN THEY LOST?"

"Yeah, Jags beat 'em out, man."

"HOW'S THAT POSSIBLE? LE'VEON BELL PROMISED TO SEE US IN FOXBOROUGH!"

Brandin's white BMW beeped when he pressed the lock button the instant James Harrison slammed the passenger's side door.

"Be humble or _be humbled,"_ Adam Butler, number 70 on the defensive side of the field, stated, patting James on the shoulder as he approached from behind, his economical black Toyota Prius just behind him reflecting white residue from the harsh, snowy weather of New England. "And the Jaguars haven't learned from the Steelers' mistakes. They're already talking trash."

"It's not very nice," Matthew Slater chimed in, a visible frown tugging the corners of his lips as he shook his head disapprovingly. He'd been waiting for his teammates that had pleasantly arrived at the same moment he had. "We'll just do what we do best. Focus on the team, on getting better, on making as many play--"

"HALLELUJAH! I LIVE TO SEE ANOTHER DAY!" James Harrison leapt into the air, clicking his heels together. Never before, in the whole of his 39 years, had he heard better news. A small part of him had been hoping to sack that no good, rotten, homeless Ben Roethlisberger once and for all, but his time for that would come in a later season; he'd been _signed to play another five years_ after all, something that the goddamn Steelers had _never_ given him.

"So, anyway," Adam continued. It was best to ignore James. They referred to his behavior, in private, as an _adjustment period._ Secretly, during group prayer, a number of them sent wishes to God above that _this_ was all it was. "Let's go gear up, boys. Gotta be prepared for those Jaguars. They'll be coming in fierce."

* * *

Julian Edelman had taken the long drive to Gillette Stadium three times since his falling out with Tom Brady; and all three of those times, Julian hadn't even managed to get out of his car before he pulled out of Patriot Place, cursing himself. 

It was no use.

Danny _swore_ that he'd tried to talk to Brady, that he'd asked him every chance he'd gotten if he could give Jules a call; but what else could be done when Tom was so laser-focused on the _next game,_ on the _next ring?_ It was like the man was drowning in more than just electrolytes, Danny had said, but Julian was not so convinced. After the way he'd sacked his phone call with him just days before, Julian was not sure _who_ he was anymore.

He pulled into Patriot Place for the forth time since the win against the Titans. Despite being inactive for the season, it had been _healing_ for him to watch his boys play. Being so close to Tom helped, too. It was easy to absorb Brady's confident energy, and after half a week without seeing the legendary Quarter Back, Julian's confidence was slim to none. Despite the fact that he knew his best friend, the one that had given him more than he could ever explain, did not want him around, Julian just _could not resist._

This time, he told himself, he would go in. Practice was half over, but there was time yet to make an appearance, _especially_ given that he and Burkhead had plans for dinner later that evening. He _couldn't_ just leave.

Julian pulled into an unambiguous spot and trekked across the grand concrete pathway that lead to The Hall, the gift shop, the mountain of stairs surrounding the field. Ahead, a set of double gates was the only thing blocking him from entering the stadium to sit in on practice. Jules' fingers twitched at his sides. A cold sheen of sweat coated his forehead. His gut churned and clenched and his heart raced so hard it was like he'd just caught a game-changing pass.

A lone security guard controlled the gates and, recognizing Edelman, pressed a button to allow them to open with a simple nod of his head. Julian gave him a wave and forced his feet to continue.

The team practiced in the center of the field. He could see the numbers written across the red and white practice jerseys from here. Number 90 (Brown) leapt like a fucking ballerina across a massive, monster-truck tire. Number 33 (Lewis), 28 (White), 14 (Cooks), 15 (Hogan), and 87 (Gronkowski) were doing high-knee runs across an obstacle zone. A group of defensive linemen were pushing into massive, padded mechanisms that fought back, representing another team. And there, _just there_ in the middle, number 12 (Brady, of course) was throwing the ball to number 2 (Hoyer) as numbers 21 (Butler), 24 (Gilmore), and 32 (McCourty) put the pressure on them, running straight and zigzagging between them as though threatening a sack.

For the first time in days, Julian smiled.

He jogged down a long set of steps towards the sideline, unnoticed by the team but _entirely_ noticed by Bill Belichick.

"Hey, Jules."

"Hey, Coach. How's it going?"

"Fine. It's Wednesday."

"Yeah, I know. Ready for the game?"

"We are going to practice daily."

"I figured," Julian replied. Bill hadn't taken his eyes off the field.

"THE HELL WAS THAT, MARTELLUS! YOU PLAY LIKE MY GRANDSON, AND HE ISN'T WALKING YET!" his hand was out, palm flat and facing towards the heavens, as though genuinely confused by Bennett's field tactics. "AND YOU TWO!" Bill shook his head, gesturing for Trey Flowers and Nate Solder to join him on the sidelines for a talk. "YOU ARE LITTLE GIRLS!" Julian took that as his cue to step away.

He greeted Josh and Matt, then took a seat on a bench, tucking his hands between his legs as he watched his team. They were so synchronized it blew his mind. What he wouldn't give to get back out there and catch a perfectly thrown ball.

* * *

Of course Danny had noticed when Julian entered the stadium. 

He noticed everything.

Danny, currently running the field with Matthew Slater hot on his heels and attempting to catch a long pass, fell to the ground, tripping over Matthew's feet as the other tried to block him from a catch. "Oh god, sorry!" Matthew chirped, but it was unheard by Amendola. These real-life scenarios were what made them perform better when push came to shove, but Danny still felt the injustice as he got up, looking for a flag.

"YOU SEE THAT JULES?"

"I did!" Julian called, shaking his head with a laugh that reached his eyes.

* * *

_You see that **Jules**?_

Tom paused for a split second to glance up. The last thing he needed was for Danny and Julian to start getting freaky in the middle of the fucking field. Talk about a distraction. His eyes found Julian's warm gaze from the sidelines. The wide receiver gave him a quick wave. Tom made to mimic the action when Stephon Gilmore ran straight into him, full speed. It happened so quickly Tom had no idea what had happened. One moment, his arm outstretched in a perfect arc as the ball released from his hand, sailing through the air into Hoyer's awaiting hands and the next, he was waving to Julian, then his hand was bending sickly, unnaturally stretching in a way it just _shouldn't_.

"FUCK!" he screamed, jerking his hand protectively against his own chest, his wide eyes looking down at the precious thing worth most to him in this whole, entire world. "WHAT DID YOU DO!?"

"Yo, don't fucking front with me, man, I ain't got no friends off the field," Stephon snapped, jumping up and charging into Brady's space, but it ended so quickly it may never have happened at all. The entire team surrounded Tom from all sides, their mouths open and horrified as Tom stretched his fingers, trying to shake out the agony that moved from the tips of his fingers all the way to his wrist.

"Get him into the medics." It was Bill's solid, confident voice that took over at precisely the right moment. "No one can hear about this until we know what we're looking at."

By the time Tom had reached the locker room, he managed to throw a quick glance back into the stadium. Julian Edelman was nowhere to be seen.

In the stadium, unseen by anyone, sat Blake Bortles, a bright smile on his face as he snapped a photograph.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY CRAP ONE MORE GAME! JUST ONE MORE GAME! CAN WE BEAT THOSE JAGGYS? IS THIS JUST HANDGATE OR WILL BRADY BE OKAY? I CAN'T DEAL!!!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> without gayness, times are trying and everyone has a price to pay.

"Hello is this ESPN?" Blake Bortles whispered into his cellphone, eyes still locked on Tom Brady as he proceeded to individually stretch each of his fingers out. 

"Hi, yes, this is ESPN." 

"I have an anonymous tip," Bortles hissed, "I have a picture... a picture that could single- _hand_ edly destroy every last drop of confidence that this team has."

"...what team, sir?"

" _The God forsaken Patriots_." 

"Do it." The line went dead and Bortles did it, hitting send on his phone. The picture was out of his his _hands_ and into those of ESPN. He chuckled darkly, turning to sneak out of the locker room when suddenly there was a hand gripping hard at his shoulder. Bortles flinched under the touch, frozen, refusing to turn around. 

Matt Patricia snarled. "Did you get the picture?"

"Yes."

"Good." Matt Patricia released his hold on Bortles. "I'll distract Brady. Get the hell out of here." 

Bortles hesitated, regarding Matt Patricia, "Never realized you were so... evil."

Matt Patricia huffed. "I have my reasons, now scadoodle."

Bortles eyed Matt Patricia, spotting something horrible in the other's eyes. He turned and left the locker room. 

* * *

Paul Posluszny stood solemnly outside of Patriots Place, wishing to _God_ that he hadn't worn his #51 Jaguars jersey, for it just made him stick out that much more. He nervously glanced around before forcing his gaze onto the ground beneath his feet, patiently awaiting the return of his beloved quarterback. What he got, instead, was something he really could've done without. 

Duron Harmon, #30 of the Patriots rushed out of the stadium alongside two other guys (Gronk and Hogan) and 4 medical professionals pushing Tom Brady on a stretcher. Tom winced, crying out -- damn near sobbing -- as they hurried the New England quarterback to the medical wing of Patriots Place. Harmon, however, was forced to stop when he locked eyes with #51 of the Jaguars. 

The color drained from Paul Posluszny's face. This was exactly what he'd been hoping to not happen. Even if he hadn't stupidly work his Jaguars shirt during this heist there would've been no escaping the eyes of _Duron Harmon_. As Duron approached him, the sounds of Brady's shrill crying faded with distance, but Posluszny's heart-rate sky rocketed.

"Paul." Harmon lifted his chin. "What you doing here?"

Paul kept his chin inclined, kept his gaze low. The two men were the same height even though Duron was seven years younger. Seven years younger and freshly married. Not that Paul could blame the guy, he himself had been married for five years.

Marriages aside, these two men were once _lovers_. And both of them had felt dread upon realizing their teams would be pitted against each other in the second most important game of the entire football season. 

Paul's eyes searched the ground. "I'm... I came to see you." 

Just as Paul suspected, Harmon completely fell for it. "What?" Harmon blinked quickly, shocked. 

Paul Posluszny felt his insides twist sourly. He hated taking advantage of the other but he simply couldn't expose Bortles' plan to somehow strip the other team of their confidence. 

Harmon nearly choked on his words. "I'm... I can't believe you thought of me..."

Now it was Paul's turn to feel shocked. "Of course I thought of you. Think of you every single day of my life. But this... this is different... tomorrow-"

Harmon nodded, hanging off of each of Paul Posluszny's words. 

"-tomorrow is life or death for our teams, our families. And I just. I wanted to come here and... and wish you luck." Paul extended an arm to shake Duron's hand. 

Duron Harmon blinked away his tears. He nodded, and shook his head, and then nodded again, "I knew you weren't like the rest of your team. I knew you were different. I just -- I knew-- I knew you had a soul." Instead of shaking the other's hand, Duron pulled Paul into a full body embrace, whispered fervently, "Good luck to you too, my fierce lover." 

Paul shut his eyes hard, which made it all the more shocking when Blake Bortles voice came out of no where. "Thought we were suppose to hug after the game was over." Paul's heart skipped a beat as he opened his eyes to see his quarterback. 

"You fool!" Paul cried out, but it was too late.

Harmon whipped around to stare wide eyed at Blake Bortles. Harmon clasped one hand over his mouth and turned back to Paul. "Tell me it's not true, Paul."

Paul's mouth clamped shut and his lips pressed into a tight line. 

"No." Duron sounded hurt, defeat, broken. "Should've known you were no different."

Bortles chuckled lightly, "We were just driving by so we thought we'd stop and say hello."

"Talking is all you ever do." Duron spat out, "I've got to go check up on my own. You should do the same. I will keep my mouth shut. For _summer's wind_." He made eye contact with Paul as he spoke the last bit, and then he whisked away from the two Jaguars players and Paul found himself staring at his back as he disappeared on the horizon. 

 _Summer's wind_... Paul sighed at the memory the words forced him to recall, that passion filled summer of endless nights of heat. "I hope whatever you found was worth it." Paul groaned to his quarterback. 

Bortles released a tremendous laugh. "Just wait...  just wait and see." 

"Does it have anything to do with Tom Brady being raced off on a stretcher while sobbing?" Paul prodded lightly. 

Blake Bortles froze completely. "WHAT? Uhm... yes... but... you actually _saw_ that happen?"

"Yes," Paul replied bleakly too distracted by heartache to care. 

Bortles felt his breath quicken. "AND YOU DIDN'T TAKE A _VIDEO_?!"

"N-no... but what you have is better, I presume?"

Bortles sighed. "Well. Um...." 

"You made is _sound_ like you had something amazing." Paul stated. "And I trust your word." 

Bortles felt a bead of sweat fall from his brow. "Let's get out of here." 

* * *

 Brady shifted on his bed, twitching sadly. 

Gronk sat in a chair beside his quarterback while Hogan stood in the doorway.

"Coach is gonna wanna play this down as much as he can." Hogan said, arms crossed as he studied his teammates. 

Brady winced in pain, eyes rolling to the back of his head. 

Gronk tensed and leaned forward. "Are you okay? Do you need anything, Tom?"

Brady eyed Gronk warily. He tried to speak but nothing came out. 

Gronk felt himself at a loss for words. "I'm here for you, I'm not leaving your side." 

"Brady... thirsty..." Brady moaned gently.

Gronk nodded. "Gronk get water-"

"-no."

Gronk froze, eyes focused on Brady. 

"Need... electrolytes..." 

Gronk nodded vigorously and nearly jumped out of the chair, causing the chair to tackle the floor. With enough energy to run a windmill Gronk set off on his mission to fetch Brady water with electrolytes, shoving passed Hogan. 

Brady lay still, watching the ceiling as Hogan watched him. 

The two man let the silence fall around them, warm and comfortable as a blanket. 

 


	16. Summer Wind, Winter Playoffs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are getting gay but not how anyone expected...   
> Can things in New England ever go back to normal?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH GOD I JUST NEED SUNDAY EVENING WITH A SECURED PATRIOTS WIN.   
> Thank you, as always, for reading <3

"Ain't no chance in _hell_ Brady's hand is _actually_ hurt. Like-- _how the hell_ would that even happen? Just his hand? And you bet Bill Belichick would do _everything_ in his power to not let that get out if he was _actually_ hurt. What, you want to come out and point out your own weakness in a championship game? I don't think so!"

"I donno, Reg. Even for Bill, that seems a bit much. You think it's totally made up?"

"Yes. Completely! Totally! Definitely, it's made up. Listen, Lisa, I'm telling you."

"Look, Brady's only got a few more years at most. If we're talking about an injury this late in the game-- on his _throwing hand_ nonetheless-- well, that could be the end of the road for the Pats."

"Ain't gonna happen, Tony. They didn't come this far only to come this far!"

"I don't know, man. Guess we'll see what happens."

"Mark my words. You don't go into a championship game touting about an injury on the greatest quarter back of all time. You just don't. Not in New England. It's a hoax, a distraction like last week's headlines about Kraft, Belichick, and Brady arguing. This team thrives off the press claiming they can't do it now, with this or that happening. Every week it's something new, and every week they come back stronger than ever. Look, if they play half as good as they did last week, they got it in the bag."

"I wouldn't be so quick to count out the Jaguars, Reg. They pummeled the Steelers in wild, surprise win."

"Right, so now they're coming off the best game they've played all season. What happens the week after a good game like that from a mediocre team? They choke. The path to the Super Bowl goes through New England. Now, in my opinion, it's just a matter of who the Patriots will be playing and my bet? The Eagles."

"No. Way. Foles isn't half as good as Keenum, and the Vikings Defense _owns_ the Eagles--"

Tom flipped off ESPN from his spot on his personal treadmill in the basement of Brady household. He used his left hand to chug an entire liter of electrolyte enhanced water and smiled brightly.

It was only Thursday and the media was, yet again, choking. The news about his injured hand played repeatedly over news stations throughout New England and was _especially_ trending on sports networks. It was precisely where they needed to be. Brady grabbed his white towel and dabbed at his forehead, flipping his treadmill from a 3.5 jog to a 2.8 walk (he'd never been the _fastest,_ but he didn't _need_ to be fast). On his thin lips was a satisfied smirk as he popped his headphones back in, blasting his favorite Sarah McLachlan song.

* * *

 **Paul Posluszny [11:45AM]** : It's officially tomorrow.  
     **Duron Harmon [11:46AM]:** See you in two hours. 

Duron Harmon was used to being the underdog; but he hadn't been granted the nickname "The Closer" for no reason. His game-ending interceptions were legendary whenever he had the opportunity to grab hold of the _pigskin,_ as he called it, in the end zone when a second rate Quarter Back would miss-throw what was _supposed_ to have been a game-changing touchdown. Still, he was no household name. Patriots fans touted number 12 and number 87 jerseys most of all; but White, Lewis, Cooks, Amendola, and Edelman had been climbing that ladder quickly enough, too. Hell, even "black dudes all have similar characteristics" Chris Hogan was more well known than he was.

It was fine, though. Duron had other things to think about. He had the game to focus on.

He had Paul.

The little spectacle they'd had in front of Bortles had been for show, of course. The enemy Quarter Back was always looking for ways to intercept the good things that came to New England because of their team-oriented, can-do attitude. And despite the love of his life playing on a team he never imagined having to face, here in New England, Duron would let nothing get in their way.

    **Paul Posluszny [1:50PM]** : I'm here.

Duron stared at his phone, his heart in his throat before he glanced up at the window of his home away from home, a beautiful cabin on Lake Winnipesaukee, New Hampshire; a two hour drive from Foxborough.

_Summer wind._

He peeled back the long, flowing curtains just as Paul exited his 2002 Hummer; a vehicle they had long ago made love in beneath a summer sky. Paul's wife thought he'd long since gotten rid of it, but he could never. It held too many memories. Duron smiled warmly, his coffee-colored eyes traveling over the distinct, square-shape of Paul's rugged jaw, over his too-small-for-his-buff-body-head, and down those rippling arm muscles. Duron opened the door and beamed more brightly than a Lombardi trophy.

"Thought you'd never make it...."

"I wouldn't miss this for the wor--"

But Paul's words were cut short as Duron's lips caught his in a moment of undeniable passion. Duron stepped backwards blindly, pulling Paul by his Jaguar's jersey into the cabin and slamming the door shut.

"CAWWWW!!! CAWWWW!!!!"

"EEoooOOOOuuuGHHH!"

"CACHOO CACHOOO!"

Adam Thielen (19), Stefon Diggs (14), and Jerrick McKinnon (21) of the Vikings removed their binoculars as they watched Duron and Paul enter the cabin before leaping down gracefully from their positions atop various tall pines surrounding Duron's cabin.

"Operation American Cat is a go," Stefon said confidently into his cell phone.

"Good," Matt Patricia beamed, pressing his own phone firmly against his ear. "Good work."

He hung up, allowing the silence at Gillette Stadium to wash over him from the highest seat in the stands, a grin on his bushy lips.

* * *

"Just _call him!_ I'm telling you, _you_ have to make the move, man. Between all that Guerrero, and Belichick, Kraft drama and now Handgate, on top of practicing for these championship games, Tom's a loose cannon, man!" Danny insisted, opening up Julian's phone for him and then handing it to the injured wide receiver. 

"No."

"YES."

"I don't fucking _want_ to, dude. Why would I want to talk to someone who doesn't want to talk to me?"

"He _waved_ at you, man. He was _waving_ at you before he got himself hurt."

"How can you be sure?" Julian asked, squinting at Danny.

"Because, I see everything, man. I know what's going on here."

"Alright, alright. If it'll get you to shut the hell up, I'll call him," Julian resigned, scrolling his contacts until he landed on [Tom TB12 Brady GOAT/BFF/Love Bud/Snugglepus/Avocado to my Cream]. Julian threw one last look at Danny, whose eyes urged him to press the call button.

If there was one thing he could say about Danny Amendola, it was that he was one hell of a support system.

Julian pressed call and brought the phone to his ear.

It rang.

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At this point, there is a LOT going on. The gay strikes. Boom de yada.

...and then it rang a few more times. Suddenly Tom's recorded voice gave a familiar speech into Julian's ear: _Hi- it's me, Tom Brady. I may not have answered but it's not over yet! Hashtag never done! Leave a message, make it count. You only get ONE shot. LET'S GO! LASER FOCUS!_ A beep rang loud and clear.

Julian bit his lower lip and thought back to the way Brady screamed at him on the phone, angrily begging Julian to never speak to him again, to move on with his life. Julian shut his eyes, ending the call.

Danny practically collapsed in disappointment, shoulders sinking. "Julian-"

"Calling is one thing, but I ain't about to leave no voice message." 

Danny's hands balled into fists, he damn near vibrated with tension, "I don't understand why you're both just avoiding this."

Julian licked his lips and huffed a sad laugh, " _Because_ it's not important; I'm not on the field. And that’s all that matters to Tom." 

"You can't be serious. Tom loves the game, but we're all in this _together_. You both waved at each other when he got hurt-"

"Yeah-" Julian cuts Danny off bitterly, "and he probably hates me more 'cause of that." Julian smirked and shook his head. "Not only am I not in the game to help, but now it's my fault our quarterback got injured. All I am is a relentless distraction." 

Danny caught the depressed shine in Julian's eye, a threat of tears. Danny exhaled and reached out to cover Julian's hand with his own, letting the weight of his hand ground Julian. "It's _nothing_ like that, man." Danny felt his his heart skitter in the moment, for he'd never before seen Julian look so down. Even during the most difficult of times, Julian faced a challenge with fire in his eyes. But here tonight, sitting at the table with an unanswered phone call lingering between them, Danny knew Julian's heart had taken another hit. With his other hand he cupped Julian's face and they locked eyes. For a second Danny swore he saw a glimmer of hope and so he thought to himself- _to hell with it_ , and leaned in to brush his lips against Julian's. 

Julian latched onto the kiss, returning it with an intensity Danny hadn't expected. It took a second, but Danny got on board quick, reaching desperately for Julian. "You're a great player," Danny murmured around their kiss, "and a great friend." Then Danny's mind raced off without him because Julian pushed in deeper, kissing harder to eliminate the possibility of words. 

* * *

His smugness lasted a good fifteen minutes before he found himself irritated with the world. All at once there was nothing Brady could do to take his mind off the sharp jolts of new pain shooting up his arm every time he moved his thumb the wrong way. It was hell on earth simply because things had been going _so well_ before this stupid injury. Regretfully, he'd taken his frustrations out on Gisele earlier, but now that she and the kids had left him to his healing, he craved her company more than anything else.

After she'd had taken off he found himself checking social media on his phone, stalking his own goddamned wife. On her facebook he took notice of something that rubbed him the wrong way. A link to his new feature Tom vs Time (if that title wasn't his life, he didn't know what was) but it was the caption that really bugged him: ' _My hubby being honest about who his first love really is, FOOTBALL!'_ He ignored the rest and focused in on the emotional jab of those words, squaring his jaw. Her jokes hurt him in ways he couldn't quite explain, or maybe they weren't funny because they weren't jokes at all. With a sigh he closed out of all the social media apps. 

Usually he valued being alone, but right now he felt like crawling out of his skin. 

He pulled out his phone and thought of taking Danny up on his endless requests to call Julian. Tom thought back to spotting Julian on the bleachers, how nice it'd been to see his face again. Felt like the two of them hadn't spoken in forever, so yeah a call was definitely in order. Just as Tom was about to dial up his friend, the doorbell echoed throughout his empty mansion. Tom glanced over his shoulder, placing the phone down as he turned to answer the front door. He didn't notice his cellphone vibrating against the tabletop, going off with an incoming phone call, the name  _[Jules]_  lighting up the screen. 

"Drew?" Tom breathed out, spotting his old friend on surveillance footage. He moved to the front door, heart beat picking up as he yanked it open with his left hand, expression stone cold. 

Drew Bledsoe's eyebrows lifted. He wore a small grin. "Hey kid." Tom watched carefully as Drew held out a bottle of wine. "It's from Doubleback. Know you and Gisele won't be able to enjoy it anytime soon given your uh, diet. But," he tilted the bottle a bit, "all the same." Tom took the bottle with his left hand and Drew frowned, eyeing Tom's injury. "Hope it's not a bad time."

"It's not." He debated going out, taking Drew someplace discreet where they could be alone without the pressure of his family returning, someplace where they could do whatever they wanted. It was a habitual thought process upon spending time with Drew, one that Tom was surprised he still underwent after all these years. For all he knew Drew's visit was of the purest intent. "Come on in, my family's not home right now but they'll probably be back soon." 

Drew kept his grin as he walked by Brady, "Good to see you, Tommy." 

Brady flushed. "You've no idea."

* * *

Case Keenum, fully uniformed in his Vikings gear, held on tightly to the ears of the giant, overgrown rabbit. The rabbit galloped spritely throughout the forestland, and if it wasn't for the straps that secured him to the rabbit's fluffy back, he'd have fallen off quite some time ago. The rabbit was huge and sandy colored, racing in a very determined manner to find the Secret Lake. "RAHHHH!!" Case tugged on the left ear, but the rabbit swerved to the right and Case opened his mouth to scream once again but then the rabbit came to a stop. He slid off the rabbit's back and walked towards the Secret Lake. At the bottom of it, he saw exactly what, or rather who, he'd traveled this far to see.  

Somehow, magically, Vince Lombardi rose from the center of the Secret Lake, glowing body emerging past the surface of shimmering water to float just above it. In a deep and threatening rumble of a voice, Lombardi spoke, "Who dare disturbs my slumber?"

Case cleared his throat. "Hoh heedly thrumble, po lugginslo Operation American Cat fineloy vaniquapiski." 

The majestic and ethereal Vince Lombardi waves his arms causing the water to rise and fall around him in waves. He watched Case with a hollow gaze. "You've no right to request such riches, and will suffer should you take what isn't yours. However, if you so choose to go down a darkened path then I, Vince Lombardi, cannot stop you. You, Case Keenum, are  _NOT_  the diamond in the rough! You shall never be. If you can bring me the darkest secret of the diamond in the rough... only then will you receive what you ask of me." Vince Lombardi swirled impossibly fast before his body plunged feet first back into the Secret Lake from which he came. 


	18. Beat Off, Jaguars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's heating up as the clock winds down. Who will still be standing come Sunday?

The 80/20 ratio of polyester to cotton left behind the most pleasant sensation against his chest and arms. Silky smooth and warm, but _not_ quite warm enough, he slipped a teal, gold, and black hat over his head with matching gloves over his wrinkled hands. Jerry Davis, aged 68 of Saint Augustine, Florida, accompanied by his wife, Bette Davis, aged 67, found themselves in the middle of Patriots Nation the moment it was announced that the Jacksonville Jaguars miraculously advanced to their first playoff game since 1999. Back then, Jerry hadn't even hit 50 years old yet, and though his team had ultimately lost to the Steelers, it had been a proud moment for the Florida native. Now, in 2018, there had been nothing sweeter than watching Blake Bortles defeat the team that typically defeated them to advance to Foxborough.

The tensions in New England were high. He'd been watching local news closely since his arrival, the day after the one and only Tom Brady- the GOAT that threatened to put an end to the Jaguars hopes- had been injured. In the present, Jerry wore his favored Jaguars shirt and strolled into the gift shop at Patriot Place, surrounded by countless Patriots fans looking to catch a glimpse of the team at practice.

"Jerry, dear, hold on," Bette called, hobbling after her husband, whose long legs had always been longer and faster than her own. She was pink in the face, a combination of embarrassment from her husband's attire at the home of the enemy team and the chill in Massachusetts' air. It'd been years since she'd gone much more north than Georgia, and her Floridian blood was simply not used to the cold. She tugged her heavy jacket tight around her body and entered the shop. She was quick to notice the _looks_ of distaste in everyone's eyes as she followed Jerry, who seemed only to show up here because he wanted to rub it in New England's face that Tom Terrific had been injured and the Jaguars stood a fighting chance.

Brian Crandell, of Rhode Island News WJAR station, approached Jerry rather abruptly.

"Hello, sir. I see you are a Jaguars fan."

At once, a camera crew surrounded Jerry and Bette. She tried to avert her eyes. Maybe they wouldn't realize she was with him. Despite her love of the Jaguars, she knew they'd be only two of a dozen fans rooting for the underdog team in the stands on Sunday.

"Yep, sure am!" Jerry replied, speaking directly into the microphone. "Been a big fan since I was a kid, let me tell you. Excited to be here in New England to support my team."

"And how do you think Jaguars fans are reacting to the news of Tom Brady's injured hand?"

"Donno. I'm here, in Massachusetts. Think I'm one of the only fans up here, but we had to book a flight the moment they beat the Steelers. Got tickets to the game and all!" he gestured vaguely to Bette, who managed a smile. "But, you know, any time you got a chance to win a playoff game, it's exciting. Hasn't happened for us for a long time. Think Brady's got enough rings, anyway--"

In the background was a chorus of boos from raucous New England fans and Jerry waved them off with his hand.

"He may be the only one here in New England," Brian began, turning now to face the camera which zoomed in on his pointed face. "But there are some Jaguars fans here showing their pride in the midst of Pats Nation. Back to you, Allison."

The camera man lowered the mic and shifted the camera to his other shoulder, zooming it around the shop at Patriot Place, capturing images of desperate New England fans shopping for jerseys. Brian turned to Jerry.

"Who sent you here?"

"Southwest airlines."

"Was it Blake Bortles? Doug Marrone?"

"What? I wish! No, just me and my wife, we booked the tickets soon as we could."

Brian nodded vaguely to the cashiers who approached Jerry and Bette calmly.

"Come with us," they whispered in unison in each of their ears.

"What's going on?" Jerry asked as his arm was yanked towards a black door labeled " _employees only"_ and was escorted through, Bette in tow.

* * *

"Shit."

Danny was pinned against lush, white sheets in Julian's king-sized bed. The wide receiver had long since lost his shirt and despite months of missed practices, he kept in shape. One hand dragged slowly over defined abs and Julian smirked; a _real_ smirk, the first one Danny had seen in a long time. He loved being looked at like _this,_ admired and adored for his _appearance._ Fingers latched onto the waistband of Julian's sweats and tugged against the elastic, urging them off. Julian pressed his hips forward so that his ass lifted off Danny's hips, allowing the freedom for Danny to pull his pants down, revealing the distinct V-shape of his lower hips; down, exposing soft, groomed hair and down again, revealing the base of his hard cock pulled taut, caught inside the fabric of his briefs and sweats. Danny licked his lips, his eyes darting to Julian's. He pushed himself up fluidly, leaning against one hand as he chased Julian's lips, but his friend was tugging back, keeping his gaze on his.

"Let's switch, man. Your leg..."

"My leg's fine," Julian replied instantly. Danny lifted his free hand to wrap fingers around the back of Julian's head, digging into his soft hair and yanking him forward to _take_ what it was that he so desperately _needed_. The kiss was messy. Lips met lips met tongue met teeth, noses bumped, and hands fought with ferocity to get their pants off; a struggle if there had ever been one between the two wide receivers. It was not graceful, not like how they were on the field, but when the job was done their bare bodies exposed, Julian fell forward, pressing flush against Danny's fit body. So caught up in each other's mouths, neither had found the proper way to breathe and Julian had to tug back, gasping for breath.

"Get the fuck over here," he hissed, his blue eyes narrowed into needy slits.

Danny didn't need telling twice.

* * *

"So you're saying it _wasn't_ Stephon Gilmore that sliced Brady's thumb open?" Chris Hogan asked for verification.

"YO MAN, of fuckin' _course_ you'd blame the black guy!" Martellus Bennett exclaimed, shaking his head.

"What? No- no, man. I just-- I thought we all saw it-- Stephon like ran into him?"

"Yeah, but at the same goddamn time, Rex's helmet collided with Tom's hand and then, you know-- _blood,"_ explained Brian Hoyer, who had been on edge ever since Tom's injury status had been listed as _questionable._ He was still new here, in New England, and though it was _always_ a possibility that he would have to step in for Tom, as he often did at the end of a blowout game, he was ill-prepared to take over in the most important championship game of the season. The pressure was insurmountable.

"Oh, oh. Okay. Well. Shit."

Meanwhile, just outside of the locker room, in the press area, Tom Brady and Bill Belichick dodged questions regarding the status of Brady's hand.

_"Today's Friday." "We'll see." "Don't know yet." "We have two days." "We'll see." "I've been injured before." "I've worn gloves before." "Already answered." "We'll see."_

It was what they had to do. There was _no way_ in all of seven hells that they would reveal what _really_ happened and how Tom's hand was _truly_ doing. Let people think what they wanted; _especially_ the Jaguars. It was better to keep everyone on their toes. The doubt that was cast through New England and the whole of America was what Tom Brady ate for breakfast.

 _Better_ than electrolytes, indeed.

* * *

"It was Rex Burkhead," Matt Patricia whispered into his cellphone.

_"And Tom's hand?"_

"Not good."

_"Excellent."_

ESPN hung up immediately and Matt Patricia smirked as he tucked his cellphone into his pocket, rounding the corner into the locker room. To his utter shock and surprise, he nearly walked straight into one James Harrison, who stood with his arms crossed and a vicious expression on his face.

"Explain yourself."

"James-- this isn't what it looks like..."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> KICK OFF IS IN LIKE 24 HOURS I CANNOT HANDLE LIFE.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> our satire continues... congratulations on the AFC championship win! a pyrrhic victory, indeed.

_Victory!_ Glorious, stunning _victory_  rang loud and clear in the air at Gillette Stadium that Sunday evening. The New England Patriots did it again with a 24-20  _victory_ , a bursting flame of true win, one which contained a certain type of sweetness for every player and supporter alike. It was the kind of win one could taste, the type of win one could breathe in and feel fill them up from head to toe. It was Danny Amendola's laser focus as his feet pounded down the field, running faster than the wildfire hope he spread with each catch. It was Bill Belichick thrusting his arms into the sky, smiling ear to ear for the first time this year. It was Tom Brady, ball in protective tow, kneeling in battle and marking the end of a long fought war against every single team in the AFC.

It was a moment remarkable championship. That was the kind of victory this was. 

After the second kneel, time sort of slowed down for Tom Brady. He could feel himself smiling. He could felt his heart beating. Most importantly he could feel himself living out his life's purpose.  _He could feel his legacy happening_. A sudden light shed on his life; the best feeling he could ever,  _ever_  ask for. He wished that moment could last a little longer,  _just a few more seconds_  (and not just to run the clock out). Deep down he knew, even forever wouldn't be long enough, but just a few more seconds. This --  _this AFC championship victory_  -- it was everything they had worked towards. They'd earned this. The entire stadium lit up in solid celebration and time regained its normal speed as people crowded in with congratulatory appreciation. Tom felt satisfied knowing he and his teammates had done their jobs. 

 ~~Jobs that weren't over yet~~.  ~~#neverdone~~. 

Victory's flavor was still rich on Tom's tongue when he spoke to the reporter regarding their win; how the Jaguars had played well, how his hand felt okay, how he'd lead his team back into the Super Bowl, and of course, how it was never easy losing such a valuable player to injury. 

Even amidst all the chaos, Tom had managed to lock eyes with Danny Amendola. Felt a swell of pride in his chest. 

* * *

It took a while to wash up and satiate the ever endless sea of thirsty reporters, but Tom broke away from everyone first chance he got. He needed to check up on his friend. He took a swift turn into a hall when nobody was looking, disappearing from public view into an area where no one was allowed

Briskly, he made his way down a darkened corridor, pushed through heavy doors and proceeded. There seemed even less light in this hall. Tom jerked in surprise when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He glanced over to see Amendola join his side as they moved. 

"Danny..." Tom said quietly, studying his teammate's face as they walked. "You played very well tonight." 

Danny nodded once in thanks, cheeks burning as he received praise from his quarterback. "Did it for Julian. For Rob." 

Once again Tom felt that swell of pride, hot and strong inside his chest. He looked ahead as they walked side by side. Blinding white light glowed at the end of the blackening hall, escaping through the windows of a door they would soon have to open. A door they didn't want to open. A door they never wanted to open. _Ever_.

But tonight they would have to. 

They both stood still once they reached it. Danny seemed to shy away from it so Tom reached the handle and slowly tugged it down. He paused for a moment, steadying himself before shoving the door open. An onslaught of deafening roaring and metallic rattling filled their ears. Underneath the booming commotion, a steady thrum of intellectual chatter and mechanical sound. Scientists and doctors circled Robert Gronkowski, who looked angrier and more confused than ever. Chains were wrapped around the thick muscle of his arms and legs, clanging against wall and floor as he thrashed about, physically demanding to be freed, shouting angrily in protest. The concussion had disoriented him, turned him  _dangerous_. 

Tom swallowed hard, remembering bits and pieces of when his own concussions. He too had once been chained with raging confusion. Football players were lethal when they lost control, but Gronk was _huge_. 

Amendola clasped both hands over his mouth and Brandin Cooks, who had already been in the room, stepped closer to wrap his arm around Danny's shoulders, providing whatever comfort he could as they sadly observed the deeply hurt tight end. 

Gronk roared, chest heaving, hard breathing, looking like it would burst open any second now. With each aggressive twist and turn, his muscles bunched and flexed beneath his flushed and sweating skin. 

Tom stepped past the fearful doctors and scientists who all gasped and screamed for him to STAY BACK. Tom didn't listen, didn't need to. He knew... he knew. They all knew, but he knew better than most because well, he knew. 

Gronk wrenched his arms forward, snapping the chains taught so violently that it made Tom hesitated, but still, he didn't stop. "Hey buddy..." he said softly. 

Gronk's features softened for a moment before going hard again, even angrier than before. He yelled into the air, shattering the lens on one of the doctor's glasses.

Calmly, Tom spoke. "It's me, Rob. It's me, Tom Br-" but he was quickly cut off when a hand locked around his throat and squeezed. Tom panicked, doing his best to ignore the high pitched scream from someone behind him (Chris Hogan), flustered and embarrassed that he'd literally walked right into this. 

_Dial 911, Code RED! Code RED! Call in reinforcements. Brady's in danger!_

Gronk yanked Brady forward and howled right into his face, eyes wide and filled with crazy. Tom whimpered, trying his best to stay calm. "... Brady... th-thankful..." he managed. 

Gronk's eyes filled with tears. 

"G...Gronk...do great... Gronk do his job..." Tom was turning purple from the lack air. 

Gronk's breathing shallowed out as he stared into Brady's eyes. He tried so hard to stay angry, but it was melting... melting...

Brady thought he might pass out.

Amendola rushed over and stood by Brady's side, unable to resist, "Please, Rob," he begged desperately. "Remember our hug? Remember how you held me when I needed you to? I need that right now, Rob. Please. PLEASE!" 

Gronk released Brady who collapsed onto his knees and reached one hand to his throat as he coughed and sputtered. He could hear the pitter patter rush of feet hurrying over to help him so flung his arm out, "Stay back!" He warned, as he concentrated on regaining his breath. Everyone froze. 

Amendola met Gronk's eyes and squared his shoulders. He walked forward, so small compared to Gronk, and pressed his body into Gronk's. Immediately, Gronk wrapped his arms around Danny and held him as though he was a gentle bird. 

James White blew his nose into a tissue. 

Everyone in the room began to clap their hands, Brady still on the floor gasping for air. 

It was Amendola's turn to have a hard time breathing, for he nearly hyperventilated from emotion, holding onto Gronk as hard as he could. "Love you, man," he rasped, voice wrecked. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry you got hurt." 

Tom, no longer purple, slowly rose to his feet and heaved a sigh. He grinned at his teammates, once more his heart expanded with just how much he loved his men. 

Gronk's own voice rumbled as he finally spoke english words. "Gronk... do it... _for Brady_." He snuggled into his hold on Amendola and they all smiled.   

* * *

After Gronk had settled down from his initial confusion and anger, he'd fallen asleep which would help his brain on its journey to recovery, and he would receive proper medical attention. Concussions were a nasty threat looming in the background of every game. No football player was safe from the danger concussions posed. They turned men into monsters, destroyed memories and ripped sanity from its victims. Tom Brady had been there -- _many of them_ had been there. Gronk was so young, too young, with so much more potential. It broke Brady's heart. Things weren't about to get any easier for Gronk anytime soon, but his friend _would_ eventually recover. And Brady was going to help in every way he could, knowing without a doubt that Gronk would do the same for him. They would recover together, hand and head. 

* * *

 _Looks like we both won... see you soon_.

Brady frowned at the mystery text on his phone.

And then it finally clicked, for the Eagles were the only other team who had won... his lips parted in dawning realization. 

* * *

James Harrison sat on the bench, one of the final Patriots left in the locker room. He moved slower than the rest, taking his time on purpose, savoring every moment of being on such an incredible and loving team. The night had been chock full of emotions, every different kind, and it was a lot to process for someone like him, someone coming from such a _different_ team. The atmosphere here felt very different from the Steeler's locker room. Back there, things were darker, harder, more difficult. The trash talking team was scum, and he'd been one of them in ever way. That he couldn't deny. But he was no longer that person. He was trying to change, trying to be better. Sitting in the Patriots locker room, playing games with them on the field made him feel like some sort of hero. It was a conflicting sensation for someone with his dark past. 

"Told ya."

James Harrison looked up to see Matt Patricia grinning down at him. He exhaled, nodded. "YOU DID." 

"This..." Matt Patricia pulled a huge breath, shaking his head with a glimmer in his eye. "This is my last and final home game at Gillette. This is it." He said with a bittersweet smile. "I wanted to make it count. And I may have pretended I was on the wrong side for a while, but I did it out of loyalty to the Patriots. I did it to _help_. I wanted to do my job, and everyone kept.. kept telling me I didn't know how to. That our defense sucked. Well, little did they know. Little did they know." 

Harrison blinked sad eyes up at Matt Patricia. "IT'S A DARK PATH YOU GOING DOWN, YOU GO TOO FAR THEY AIN'T NO COMIN BACK." 

Matt Patricia had to smile at that. "Wasn't planning to." With that he turned away from Harrison. He turned away with a heavy heart, but one that was full of love for the New England Patriots. He'd never love a team this way ever again. There were tears in his eyes when he ran into Bill Belichick, who had only just managed to escape the final round of eager reporters. Matt Patricia watched as Bill's chest heaved a heavy sigh. 

Matt Patricia thought maybe his heart would stop beating after tonight, maybe there'd be nothing left to live for, but just seeing Bill in all of his sturdy calmness gave him the will to keep his chin held high. "I'm happy." He said to Bill from across the now nearly empty locker room. 

Bill met Matt Patricia's eyes, and there was an unmistakable blankness in his voice when he said. "Me too." 


	20. More Than One Kind of Pliability

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We won, but not everyone is feeling the excitement of the celebration. Maybe it's time we get a bit gay again.

There weren't many people in this world that had the privilege of hugging one Bill Belichick, and Matt Patricia would never take advantage of the sweet, sweet moment his arms wrapped around the head coach in a celebratory embrace at the end of the AFC Championship game.

In fact, he could still feel it now, hours after the game celebrations ended where he laid in bed, warm and content to stare at the ceiling with a smile on his face.

"Good work, Matt."

It still echoed in his ear. As flatly as Bill had said it, he _swore_ he could see something in that deadpan gaze of his.

" _Good. Work. Matt."_

It might as well have been Bill informing him he'd been promoted to head coach of the Patriots. He'd done his job. He'd kept the Jaguars distracted. He'd kept the Vikings distracted, setting up a win for the Eagles, who were a match best suited for the Patriots for Super Bowl LII. He'd kept the whole goddamn _media_ distracted with vague information on Tom's throwing hand. 

And no one, except James Harrison, had caught on to his questionable tactics.

 _Everyone_ hated on the Patriots. _Everyone_ who was not a part of Pats Nation claimed they cheated their way to the top, but Matt Patricia knew the truth. Everyone else was too busy talking smack and buying into frivolous distractions to keep their focus on the game; which was was the Patriots did best. Every. Goddamn. Time.

As he rolled over in bed, snuggling up against his body pillow, Matt wondered if he'd make a good head coach. It was hard to imagine life without the Patriots, but soon, he would be working for another team.

A single tear trickled down his cheek as he closed his eyes, allowing a peaceful sleep to overcome him.

* * *

"He-- _what?"_ Julian had watched the game from the comfort of his home in Boston, elevating his injured leg with full recovery so close on the horizon he could taste it. All of his relentless work to get better was paying off. It was strange to _watch_ a game that he so typically participated in, and even with the season quickly coming to an end, Julian could _not_ get used to watching _his_ team play without him.

The silver lining was watching Danny advance across the field and scoring touch downs. Danny had worked tirelessly to ever improve, to pick up the slack the team inevitably faced with the loss of Julian for the season, and Jules could not have been more proud. The moment the game was over, his phone rang off the hook. All he had been able to make out beyond the booming cheers coming through the wide receiver was Danny's high-pitched voice screaming that " _I did this for you, man!"_

Now, several hours later, he'd gotten another call at the tail end of the Eagles vs. Vikings game (of which the Eagles were making an apparent shut out of the Vikings. Good. Let Case Keenum suffer, the weird-looking bastard that he was. Julian always did have a bad feeling about them, ever since he witnessed a single ostrich escape from a player's bag during a previous season).

"He almost died! But he's fine." It was Danny's voice on the other end, frantic and somehow relieved at once. Jules's expression screwed up. Using his leg strength, he slammed down his recliner and was on his feet.

"What the hell, man! How?"

"Gronk, well-- you know how concussions are, man," Danny answered. Julian knew. Oh boy, did he know. "He was _choking_ him, really hard, man. It was scary."

"How'd Tom get him to stop?"

"Well--" Danny paused, considering how to respond. He could tell him the truth, or he could tell a white lie. Things between Tom and Julian had been tense since the start of the playoffs, and though Julian would not be appearing in the Super Bowl, training for the following season would soon follow and Danny just wanted things to be _right_ again. "Tom pried him off. He said something about you, man. How he missed you or something. I don't really know, it happened so fast."

Julian paused before responding. There was something in Danny's voice.

He was _lying._ God, Julian could _always_ tell when Danny lied. The wide receiver made it so obvious with this _weird_ voice fluctuation that he did, but Julian wouldn't let him know that _he_ knew. His best friend was trying, and after the other night, after everything they had given one another, Julian owed him a pass.

"Really? Wow."

"Yeah, man! You should call him again. Maybe tomorrow, since you know, it's past his bed time," Danny muttered.

"Yeah, yeah. I will," Julian said quietly. One more call couldn't hurt. If Tom ignored him again, Julian would let it go. The ball was deep in Tom Brady's red zone now, and it was up to him to make the winning score if he wanted to apologize and be friends again.

Or-- well--- whatever their relationship had been _before._ Before Julian had gotten hurt. _Before_ summer training camp last year.

"Good!" Danny sounded excited as hell, and Julian could not bring himself to regret his white lie. A smile curled on his lips. "Hey, you home?"

"Yeah, man. I'm just chillin'. You still at Foxboro?" Julian asked.

"Just heading out. In my car. Can I stop by?"

His tongue escaped his lips and Julian inhaled a tight end breath. He knew just what Danny coming over would entail.

"Yeah. Yeah, sure, bro."

"Great! I'll see you in a bit."

"Yeah. I'll see you," Julian said quietly and hung up.

* * *

"NUMBER 4-6 REPORTING FOR DUTY, SIR!"

James Develin had _not_ been asked to show up at his house at eight a.m. the day after the Patriot win against the Jaguars, but there he stood. Gisele was already at her early morning gig and the kids were at school, so Tom was drinking electrolyte-enhanced water while doing some pliability training in his workout room when the fullback seemed to _materialize_ in front of him. Tom dropped his water to the floor in shock, cursing the loss of perfectly good hydration.

"For hydration's sake! What the fuck, man?"

Sure, he was on edge, but with thousands of reporters surrounding him over the past week attempting to catch the winning photo of his damaged hand, it was hard not to be.

"You ordered me here bright and early, sir!"

Tom squinted as he pulled his long leg away from the wall, having done the splits to stretch out his tight hamstrings. The night before, he _had_ partied with the team, but not _too much._ Not after New Year's Eve- _fuck,_ he could not hold his own like he used to. Around his neck, Tom wore visible bruising from where Gronk had gripped him a little too tight. _Maybe_ the lack of oxygen to his brain had mixed up his memories.

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you certainly did, sir. You said, _and I quote,_ 'please show up bright and early, James, for some pliability training at my place.' And then you fashioned me with a wink, sir!"

Tom heaved a deep sigh.

Maybe this would be good for him. The house was empty. No one would be there for hours, except for the maid, but she only spoke broken English and Russian and _hated_ talking to Gisele for reasons his wife _always_ complained about. Tom swallowed and nodded.

"Okay, babe. But first, I gotta refill my water."

* * *

 

Tears poured in buckets from Paul Posluszny's eyes as he knocked on Duron's door the day after Sunday's games; but it was not Duron that answered.

"Uh- _may I help you?"_ Christine, Duron's lovely new wife, asked with a tone of confusion and irritation. She did not recognize him; but Paul could not blame her. Their relationship had always been secret and there was no doubt in Paul's mind that she didn't really _care_ about football as much as _they_ did. She would not know Josh Lambo from Blake Bortles and he doubted if she'd even recognize a majority of her husband's team. She just seemed like one of _those_ types.

No, he _wasn_ ' _t_ jealous...

"Is Duron home?"

He felt like a child, but he did what he had to do.

"Yeah. What, are you one of his teammates?"

The question caused Paul to burst into a hideous wail. Christine's eyes bulged and she reached out, pressing a gentle hand to his shoulder.

"Uh-- oh gosh. You okay? I'm so sorry. Let me get Duron," she said gently. Paul managed a soft nod and watched as she disappeared up a long set of stairs.

A few moments later, Duron was racing towards him. He grabbed Paul's arm and jerked him outside, throwing cautious looks over his shoulder. He said nothing until he managed to bend Paul's firm, massive body and shove him into his car. Duron sped out of the driveway before he reached over and smacked the Jaguar across the back of his head.

"You _can't_ just show up at my house, man!"

"I--I---I---I---I knowwwww," Paul sobbed. "I just---I just-- I--I-- _We lost!"_

Duron exhaled a tight breath through gritted teeth. This was why they'd had to call it quits before and Duron had been _foolish_ to hold hope for his ex boyfriend _now,_ during championship games. How could he have predicted the Jaguars would have beat the Steelers? It'd been a _miracle_ by every definition of the word. Tensions were too high and both men took their jobs seriously. They played for their own  _teams,_ and when their teams were  _enemies..._ Had he _known_...

Had he known...

"That's how the game _goes,_ man," Duron replied, trying to sound firm but there was a distinct gentleness to his tone. "We knew this was going to happen. No matter what, one of us would walk away the losing team."

"It's not--It's not _fair!"_ Paul's voice boomed, causing Duron to slam on his brakes. A massive Toyota truck laid on the horn behind him and Duron continued.

"Man, what'd you _expect?_ It was either going to be me or you losing that game. We shouldn't have--"

"You guys _always_ win! ALWAYS! HOW MANY SUPER BOWLS?!?!?!"

"We work hard," Duron replied, feeling somewhat defensive. All of the cheating rumors _usually_ could be brushed off, but it was a touchy subject and he knew that's where they were fast approaching.

Paul glared, shaking his head. " _We_ worked hard," he insisted.

"No doubt. We all work hard. They're championship games, man."

"I--I-- thought I meant more to you--"

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" Duron asked.

"I thought you'd _help_ me win!"

"What do you mean?" Duron asked, trying to comprehend what Paul was insinuating. It sounded an awful lot like Paul had been _expecting_ Duron to purposely fuck up and let the Jaguars win.

"We-- _Thursday,_ man," Paul replied, as though it were obvious.

"Is _that_ what that was about? Lake Winnipesaukee? You thought I'd _let_ you win because of that?"

Paul was silent, his tears slowing as he stared straight ahead.

"Summer wind?"

Paul said nothing.

"SUMMER WIND?"

Again, Duron was met with silence. He jerked the car into a Dunkin Donuts parking lot, staring up at a poster of Gronk's face in the window for a moment, causing him to feel a wave of hate and resentment for the Jaguar. They had _earned_ that title, but Gronk was _hurt_ now because of Paul's fucking idiotic teammate taking a rough hit against **_his_** _teammate._

"Get the fuck out."

"No," Paul replied. Duron reached over him and opened the door.

"I said OUT!"

Paul finally met his eyes, the tears returning. "We--we--- _lost_...."

It was the last thing he said before Duron shoved him out the door with all the strength of a safety and sped away, wiping at his own tears.

* * *

Julian woke up the next morning, naked and curled up next to Danny.

He stretched and stood up before he shuffled to his phone on the other side of the room and gave his friend a quick glance, remembering his promise to the wide receiver. It was just after eight a.m. and Julian knew that Tom would be working on pliability. Deciding to get this over with, he swallowed before hitting Tom's name in his phone, allowing it to ring.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SUPER BOWL LII HERE WE COMEEEEEE!!!!  
> May Gronk recover ASAP <3


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tom brady is GOING INSANE without the gayness.

As far as Tom was concerned, the phone conversation with Julian went _horribly_. Maybe it was time to admit that everything in his life outside of football was going _horribly_.

 _That's not true at all_. ~~Yes~~. ~~It is~~. _No_. ~~Yes~~. _No_. ~~It's just, something's missing~~. _Nothing's missing_. ~~Something is missing~~. (Too many concussions.) 

A lot of stress. Anger. Pressure. Fear. And a lot of noise from the outside. Doubt. Hate. Lies. Things no human being could ever grow accustomed to, not even after seventeen years. The season was great so far but...

 ~~Something was missing~~.  
~~Something was missing~~.

 ~~_Jules_ ~~ _?_

Tom stood alone in his kitchen after it had all gone down. After he'd found out. He stood alone glancing down at his injured hand, holding it palm up so he could really take a look. So he could gently feel at it and measure up his progress. (No one else was.) It wasn't open heart surgery, after all. _C'mon Tom, you're the oldest dude on the team -- be a goddamned man about it_. 

 ~~But something was missing~~.   
~~Something just wasn't the same~~.  
~~Something was making all of this strangely difficult~~.

_~~Jules~~?_

Tom pursed his lips together as he studied his hand, but his concentration faltered after a moment. He kept his gaze down, but his mind had left the kitchen, returning him to that dreaded phone call. Should've talked to Julian sooner than this. Should've just fucking talked to him sooner. Should've never left him on New Year's Eve. Should've done so much that he couldn't do now. 

 ~~It's too late now~~.   
~~He's gone~~.

* * *

 **APPROXIMATELY 0800 [1200 SECONDS PRIOR].**  

"Excuse me, Tom Brady  _SIR_. Patriot number 12. Your unmarked cellular device is ringing, _SIR_." Mr. Brady does not reply to me. I, James Rittenhouse Develin Junior. ( _born_  July 23, 1988), immediately frown upon my captain's lack of response. I decide to take the initiative like any good soldier on the battle front would. I pick up Mr. Brady's unmarked cellular device and slide it open. "Hello and good morning. This is Patriot number four dash six, James Rittenhouse Develin Junior, reporting for duty on behalf of Patriot numb-" but I am cut off. 

"Uh, _Develin?_ Why the hell you answerin' Brady's phone at 8 a.m.?" Julian sounds distressed.

"Yeah, I hear you, baby. Just grabbing some electrolytes... like I literally just told you. Be right there." Mr. Brady shouts it from the next room over.

"Sir, it's Julian Edelman!"

Mr. Brady runs into the room like a dog excited to greet its owner. My brows furrow seeing my captain act in such an off putting manner. I shiver as he yanks the phone from my hand; his skin is so soft. He drinks many a glass of water and moisturizes often, I truly suppose. I make a mental note to do the same. 

"Jules!" Mr. Brady exclaims into his unmarked cellular device. He simply sounds so beyond joyous that I cannot contain myself. I also smile big and bright and call out good morning to Patriot number eleven as well. Mr. Brady waves his arm at me in a dismissive manner which I do not appreciate in the least. I watch him, saddened. 

He spins around and I can no longer see his face. He'd looked very much thrilled just a moment ago so I don't understand why he suddenly sounds furious. "Is Amendola there _with_ you? _Right now?_ At 8 in the _fricken_ morning?" Mr. Brady's tone is very ugly. "It's 8 in the morning, Jules --- I wasn't born yesterday!" Mr. Brady huffs. "Shut up, I _know_ how old I am. I just want you to know nothing actually  _happened_ with Develin!"

"Of course something happened!" I cry out loud enough so Julian can hear. "A lot happened! And more to come!" Mr. Brady shoots me a dirty glare and I shake my head, frowning in disappointment. Mr. Brady is truly upset.

I reach out and place a comforting hand on his shoulder but he just yanks himself away and tells me to go home. My jaw hits the floor and I cannot believe my captain just took such a tone with me. My breathing picks up, but I try to steady it. "Sir, yes sir." I mutter, marching out of the room. Behind me I can hear Mr. Brady saying, "You know what, Jules, this conversation is _over_." I have never seen my captain in such a dismal mood, and despite my hurt feelings, I vow then and there to cheer him up.

* * *

Brady kinda felt bad about how harsh he'd been on Develin. Just wrong place wrong time, he couldn't help it. He did occasionally snap at people, this he owned up to, and that's exactly what had just happened with Develin. That wasn't what the team needed two weeks before participating in the fucking super bowl but what could Brady say? He'd just lost the love of his life, cut him some slack. 

He shut his eyes and licked his lips, mentally scolding himself for branding Julian as 'the love of his life'. Clearly, he _wasn't_. In the heat of the moment Brady smashed his new glass of water off the table, hissing in agony when he felt the blast of pain in his hand, in his arm. He whimpered, beyond frustrated as he stared down at even more broken glass.

 ~~Ruined, just like his relationship with Jules~~.

Second ruined drink of the day. If things kept going the way they were he'd need a whole new set of dishes soon. 

Brady grabbed his cell and ignored the new text from the mysterious number. He didn't even care to read it right then. Instead he found Drew in his phone and hit call, expression pinched with resentment. 

"Yeah." Bledsoe answered. 

Drew's voice sounded so good on the phone right then and there and Brady immediately regretted how he hadn't dragged Drew out to a bar the other night, gone back to Drew's place after the game. He wasn't even sure if there was anything left between the two of them but he figured he might as well try. He just _needed_ someone. _Needed_ to not be alone. "I miss you." He said immediately. 

"You sound upset." More of a question than a statement, really. 

"I _am_." Tom whined, "Because I _miss_ you."

Drew paused for a moment too long before doubtfully asking, "What happened, Tommy?"

Brady clenched and unclenched his left hand. Seriously? After all these years? And Bledsoe could still see through him like this? He opened his mouth to respond but couldn't think of a good lie on the spot.

Instead he heard Drew sigh over the line. And Brady wished he could just find the right thing to say to win this, to get Drew next to him. Maybe he'd missed the opportunity, maybe that's why Drew had visited the other night. Maybe sitting on the couch with Fluffy jumping between their laps wasn't what Drew had been hoping for during that late night visit, but it was what he got and he'd had time to process it. 

"I really do miss you." Tom confessed. He heard Drew laugh a little bit. 

"I miss you too." 

"I'm going crazy over here. I feel like something's _missing_." Telling the truth was strange for Tom but it felt good, the beginning of some much needed relief.

"Of course you do." Drew said, a smile to his tone. 

Tom felt confused, so he kept quiet. If Drew was mocking him he'd be _pissed_. 

"When was the last time you spoke to him?" Drew pressed. 

Wow. Tom really didn't want to talk about that. "He's moved on." 

"Really? Jimmy G's got a girl?"

"Garoppolo? What? No..."

"I think you're wrong about that. He hasn't moved on." 

"No, _you're_  the one wrong- he’s not even the right _person_."

"You ever stop to think maybe he was?" Drew countered. "Can’t tell me you’ve never even thought about it. Hell, I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel jealous at first, when I caught wind of you two and the way you were hitting it off. Had a few flashbacks."

Brady collapsed into a chair, sulking as he held the phone against his ear. He shut his eyes and shook his head. "Even-" he sighed. "Even if that was the case, which it's not-" he swallowed dryly, "-then it'd still be too late."

 ~~He's gone~~.  
~~Not Jules~~?

"Nah. You and I lasted a while after I left, didn't we?"

"We also didn’t have 15 years between us." Brady huffed a quiet, pathetic laugh.

"I see you did the math." Drew joked.

"It just wasn't like that for me with Jimmy. He never saw me like that either.” Brady licked his lips in thought. “How long did we really last, Drew? Did we ever even end?”

“You tell me.”

“Let me just meet you where you are." Brady groaned, feeling all of what it was to be 25 and regularly hooking up with his mentor. 

After a few moments of contemplative silence, Drew said, "If you say so, Tommy." 


	22. Spygating On Love and Bench Presses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wait for the Super Bowl is not going to be easy on anyone; but some players may find themselves on the verge of a breakdown.

"Don't you think we should tell him to--- go to sleep?"

"He's a grown man, ma, he can decide that for himself."

"I think he feels like he needs _permission,"_ Andrea Cooks said gently, patting her son on the shoulder. Brandin flinched under her gesture, his dark eyes searching his mother's pointed features. He knew she was right. Ever since he'd come to New England, James Harrison had, _bizarrely,_ attached himself to Brandin's hip. Brandin couldn't really _blame_ the guy. He'd been living the life of a homeless Steeler up until a few, _long_ weeks ago. Now, however, there was no reason for James to live on the streets (or Brandin's couch, for that matter), but his mother always had a gentle heart. Raising four boys on her own after her husband suffered a deadly heart attack had given her a giving soul, and she felt for the older linebacker who was _completely_ out of his territory here in Pats Nation.

"Alright, alright," Brandin exhaled. It was the day after their epic comeback against the Jaguars and James hadn't stopped to breathe. He'd been pumping iron for _hours,_ training for the Super Bowl after exclaiming he hadn't had _any_ Super Bowl time in _years._ It seemed he was panicking at the prospect. Now that he was no longer worried the Steelers were going to murder him during a game (the Jaguars took care of that), he'd learned to relax a _little,_ but the latest win had sent him into a downright frenzy.

Brandin approached silently, watching as James bench pressed _double_ Brandin's weight. It was pretty impressive, Brandin had to admit.

"Hey man," he said gently.

James immediately dropped the heavy dumbbell and yelped as they crashed to the ground. It was a damn miracle they hadn't fallen _on_ James himself, strangling him.

"Yo, yo, sorry, man! Sorry," Brandin cooed, hurrying forward to assess the situation. The circular weights had fallen off the bar and landed against the bench and padded ground. "You alright?"

"YEAH MAN, YOU DONE SCARED ME!" James shouted, sitting up with a sweat-drenched, black, cut-off sweatshirt. "BEEN EXERCISIN'! LOST ME SOME TRACK OF TIME!"

"Yeah, that's why I'm here, man. It's like almost midnight and you been at it all day," Brandin said gently. James's nose scrunched as his eyes bulged.

"WHAT!"

"Yeah, you really lost track've time, I guess, man," Brandin said, shrugging as though it was something that happened to him all the time.

"YEAH! YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW!" James shouted. "I DONE LOST TRACK'VE TIME! IT'S THE _**PLAN** , _MAN! GOT ME THINKIN'!"

Brandin's brows scrunched. He'd heard James mention this _ambiguous_ plan more than once, and no matter how hard he pushed, Brandin never received satisfying answers from the strange, foreign linebacker. James hopped up suddenly and grabbed a jug of water, throwing it over his head with his jaw practically hanging off its hinges to swallow gulp after gulp. Brandin nodded for lack of something better to do and averted his eyes.

"So, uh, you're welcome to use the shower, again," Brandin said distantly. "Ma set up the couch. But, hey, man, you know you can probably afford to buy a house now, and I've been thinking that'd be really good for you...."

James's eyes bulged in panicked mania. "NO, MAN! THEY. GOIN'. TO. KILL. ME!"

"The Steelers? Man, they can't _kill_ you. You can always install a security system or something..."

"IT AIN'T PART'VE THE PLAN!" James all but screamed, stomping his right foot as his eyes went into a rage. Brandin nodded slowly and took a step back. The dude could be scary.

"Okay, man, yeah. That's fine. I understand. It's an adjustment period." _Please, Jesus, be an adjustment period._ "Take your time... We just want you to, you know, feel comfortable here, in New England..."

"THE _**PLAN**_ , COOKIE!"

"The plan, James."

* * *

Julian stared at his phone as it faded to black.

"Jules?" It was the eighth time Danny had said his name, and Julian _finally_ glanced over.

"He hung up," Julian mumbled, keeping his back towards Danny. He swallowed tightly, his eyes fixed on the glossy, black screen as though it might light up again with Brady's name, calling to apologize; but he wasn't so foolish as to believe the Quarter Back would _actually_ do that. Tom Brady was nothing if not strong-headed.

"Why?" Danny asked gently. Julian could hear the bed springs creak beneath Danny's shifting weight, then the sound of blankets shuffling against sheets as the other got to his feet. He approached him from behind. Julian felt the soft touch of the tips of his fingers against his bare ass before he saw him. Julian closed his eyes and leaned back into the touch.

"I don't know. Develin was there," Julian exhaled, his brows pulling tight as his lips frowned in thought. James Develin was a good player, there was no doubt, but he hadn't _noticed_ anything out of the ordinary about his relationship with Tom. James _swearing_ something _happened_ despite Brady vehemently declaring it hadn't was _confusing._ He didn't know what to believe.

"That's weird," Danny replied gently as he took another step forward. His leg hit the back of Julian's thigh and at once, he felt Danny's soft lips against his shoulder, peppering kisses delicately towards his neck. "You know Brady is--"

"Neurotic? Cruel? Self-centered?" Julian offered. Danny released a breathy laugh against his skin, causing shivers down Julian's spine and a smirk to curl on his own lips.

Danny was good at making him forget his troubles; but maybe that was _why_ he was in this mess in the first place.

_No._

Who was he kidding?

It'd been his _fucking_ preseason injury that got him _here._ Without his _team_ and with a leg that refused to work right, he was nothing. He'd relentlessly endured the recovery and with a full recovery on the horizon, it was impossible not to feel even _more_ frustrated than normal. Watching _his_ team go to another Super Bowl, this time _without_ him, was already making him _touchy_ and irritable. That should be _him_ out there, rushing across the field to catch a game changing throw. It made him want to scream every time one of his teammates missed an easy catch or fumbled a ball, and Julian _knew_ that wasn't fair. He'd fucked up plenty of times himself.

"Something like that," Danny murmured in his ear, pressing another kiss, just there. Julian exhaled a slow, silent breath through parted lips, allowing the tension in his shoulders to relax.

"What if he doesn't _need_ me anymore?" Julian asked, swallowing tightly as he voiced the _one concern_ he'd had since he first learned what his injury meant. He'd be replaced. Tom would have to learn to rely on others more; on Gronk, on Brandin, on Dion, on James, on _Danny._ No, he wasn't _mad_ at Danny. Envious was more like it; but Julian _knew_ that wasn't fair. Danny had been the one person who had _been there_ for him, no matter what.

"Don't be stupid," Danny whispered, pressing kisses along his jawline. "Just come to practice. _I'll_ talk to him again, man. It's _my_ fault. I'll get him to see the light, no matter what."

"I just don't want to get in the way," Julian whispered, hardly listening to Danny, hardly comprehending the fact that his best friend was taking the brunt of the blame for _whatever_ the hell Tom was thinking and feeling.

"You could never get in anyone's way but your own, Jules."

Julian turned suddenly, his eyes finding Danny's.

"Holy shit, man. You're right."

Danny offered a crooked smile and took both of Julian's hands in his own. "'Course I am. C'mon now. Back to bed..."

Julian didn't protest as Danny pulled him backwards, towards the king bed, and easily fell on top of him. What he didn't tell his best friend was precisely _how_ right he had been.

* * *

"Jerry?" Bette grabbed her husband's hand as they stood in the center of The Hall at Patriot Place, admiring the endless wall of jerseys from the _greats_ in Patriots history.

"Mm?"

"What're you thinkin'?"

"Wondering how much Super Bowl tickets will cost us, Bette," Jerry replied, beaming at his wife. They each wore a fan jersey- Jerry sporting number 15 for Chris Hogan and Bette sporting number 87 for Rob Gronkowski.

"Whatever they cost, dear, we can manage it. Even if we have to sell the house. We gotta go, support our boys," Bette replied, beaming.

"Yeah, we do," Jerry replied. "Gotta see 'em win again."

Behind them, two employees of Patriot Place nodded to one another in satisfaction before turning, disappearing into the crowd as though they'd never been there at all.

* * *

"Yes. That's what I said."

Nick Foles, number nine, of the Philadelphia Eagles lifted his binoculars to his eyes, watching Wes Welker in his Houston Texans tee converse on the phone in his convertible, the top fully down and making it easy for Nick to overhear everything he said. Nick had heard some _peculiar_ rumors about Matt Patricia; the coach in charge of New England's defense. It was said that he was switching teams for his chance at Head Coaching.

"No, Matt, sorry." Nick leaned forward, his eyes bulging. "I know, I'm sorry. I would _love--_ **love** to take your position but-- I'm contracted to the Houston's... Yeah, I understand. I know. I love them too. How's-- How's _Brady_?"

There was something in Wes's expression that Nick had difficulty reading; but it simultaneously felt _familiar,_ like he had felt the _exact same thing_ many times before.

Tom Brady was an enigma, there was no doubt, and Nick had done his research. The history between Wes and Tommy ran deep, but he didn't know if they remained in contact. The elusive Quarter Back was hard to dig up information on.

Wes left a long, drawn-out pause, his expression shifting from somewhere between agony and uncertainty to a soft smile.

"Good. That's great. What?" Again, he paused, and Nick chanced sticking his head out of his own rented, car window, trying to hear the other better through the background noise of traffic. "Oh- shit, yeah. Maybe. I guess. Okay." If _only_ he could hear the other side of the conversation. Nick inhaled a deep breath, holding it as though doing so might give him super-human hearing. It didn't work. "Yeah, maybe I could make a visit before the Bowl. Ha! Yeah, I know how he gets." Wes grinned distantly, his eyes shifting as he caught movement out of the corner of his gaze. Nick dropped his binoculars and pretended to be adjusting his rear view mirror. With his dark sunglasses, Dallas Cowboys hat, fake mustache, and fat suit, he didn't _think_ he'd be recognized. The disguise had cost him a pretty penny. _Who knew realistic fat suits ran so much?_ (Well, not _literally,_ because he did not believe someone who was _actually_ the size he was portraying could run very far). Wes still seemed uneasy, but he glanced ahead again. "Okay. I'll see you soon then, Matt. Yep. Good talking." He paused for a moment, as though he was going to hang up before he quickly changed his mind. "Oh! And Matt? Don't tell Brady I'm coming. I'd like it to be a surprise." Wes laughed lightly at something Matt said. "Yep. Yeah. Great talking. See you."

He hung up and put his car in reverse, leaving the parking lot with a smile.

Nick sneered.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY HEY THANK YOU FOR READING AS USUAL! If you made it this far, you go Glenn Coco!  
> Can we make it the next 2 weeks? Gonna be HARD!! (In more ways than one wink wink)


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shit's getting serious and there's a lot we need to cover before the superbowl !!! LET'S FUCKING GO BOYS.

That purple polka dotted sky up above looked like a south Florida sunset, maybe. Well there's usually more orange. And the grass being all blue, well, that's not natural. Why was the grass so blue? "Hey Tom?"

"What's up?"

"Why's the grass so blue?"

Brady's throat rolled with a harsh swallow. Why was Brady staring so hard at Gronk? "You see how blue this shit is?" Gronk gestured downwards. There was no mistaking the nervous look across Tom's face. There was this frown tugging at his lips, this concern in his eyes which he refused to let Gronk look into no matter how hard Gronk tried. "What's up with this gay ass purple sky, bro? What the hell?"

Brady opened his mouth, licked his bottom lip. Shook his head. Swallowed again. "Take a seat , Rob." 

"Why?"

"Just take a seat, okay?"

"I wanna get out there, wanna-"

"No. You're gonna sit down with me, okay? We're gonna sit down." Tom smacked Gronk's hip and nodded to the bleachers.

"Tom! You _feel_ that? Holy shit do you feel that?"

Brady inclined his head, eyes searching discreetly since he couldn't actually feel anything. "Uh."

"I just felt like, a dark presence." 

With a slow shake of his head Tom took a seat. He patted the spot next to  him. "Have a seat."

Gronk plopped down beside Tom. "Where... what time is it?"

"Like 9 a.m."

"Shit. I need to _be_ somewhere, Tom."

"Yeah, practice. You're here."

"Oh yeah. Yeah! That's right. Thank God."

"Heya Brady!" Amendola jogged up to Brady and Gronk and glanced down at them with big bright eyes. "Hi Gronk, how you feeling?"

An intrigued Tom also looked to Gronk as he answered with a flabbergasted shake of his head. 

Danny said, "Trust me, you've improved _a lot_. Concussion protocol taking good care of you."

Tom nodded and placed his hand on Gronk's thigh, holding on tight and squeezing. Gronk retaliated by wrapping his arms around Brady, and Tom just let it happen. 

"I've never seen such a purple polkadotted sky." Gronk whispered awestruck and appreciative. 

Tom and Danny shared a look and then looked to Gronk with worry in their gazes. 

Danny cleared his throat "All right so, uh, Tom! How bout that AFC win, huh?"

Tom softened up with a smile, one that even met his eyes. Even as he was still being hugged tightly by Gronk, Tom said, "Yeah, man, you did _great_. There was no doubt about it."

Amendola tried not to flush at the praise. "It was _all_ of us. And I mean, I learned what I learned from... from _Julian_."

Just like that Tom's expression went stone cold. He lifted his eyebrows and looked away, reaching an arm around Gronk to grab a water bottle. "Jules got a lot of that from Wes." He said. Gronk purred against Tom's neck, nuzzling into him. 

"You smell nice, Tom." Gronk hummed.

"Thank you." Tom wrapped his arm around Gronk's neck and took a sip of water.

It was Danny's turn to go stiff though. The mention of Wes had Danny feeling rather uptight all of a sudden. After all, it was Wes Welker's shoes that Danny himself had been expected to fill. It was _unfair_ to ask that of him at the time. Wes was a  _phenomenal_ athlete. To say the least, the memories of that transition period sucked. Danny studied Tom's eyes, trying to figure out why he'd even bring Welkers up. "Welkers shouldn't have talked shit about Julian." Danny knew he sounded defensive.

Tom shrugged as much as he could with Gronk's arms draped over him. "Jules shot it right back at him, did he not? Boy can hold his own."  

"Why the fuck is ... why the FUCK IS..." Gronk suddenly grew very upset, interrupting the spat between Tom and Danny with his sudden shock and outrage. "Why the _FUCK_  is _HE_  here?"

Danny and Tom, suddenly perplexed, searched frantically for who Gronk could've been referring to. 

Gronk suddenly released his grip on Brady and bounded onto the field heading straight towards one Eric Rowe. 

Eric stood still, jubilantly tossing the ball up into the air to practice catching it... well, for a few more seconds, anyways. Because just then Gronk barreled into, grabbing onto his waist to propel them forward. Both their bodies were thrust into the ground. Eric yelped somewhere in there. 

Tom and Danny rushed towards the scene of conflict. Danny knelt down and started grabbing at Gronk's wild arms, trying to free Eric from Gronk's death clasp. A solid seven seconds later Brady finally caught up and also fell to his knees. He cupped Gronk's face with his hands and pressed their foreheads together, gently humming a song. 

Danny slid under the weight of Gronk and freed Eric from the assault. "You okay, Rowe? You good? You okay?"

Eric breathed heavily, eyes wide with confusion. "YEAH! I... WHAT? WHAT DID I _DO?_ "

"Nothing," Danny said firmly. 

" _Hmmm, hmmmmmmm mmm oohhooohoo mhmmm, baby stay with me_." Brady cooed, eyes locked on Gronk. 

Gronk mumbled angrily, "He... EAGLE. EAGLE not ALLOWED." 

The color drained from Eric Rowes face, he slinked away from Danny's hold on him. He bit his lower lip, expression drenched in sadness. 

Dion Lewis ran over faster than the speed of light. He did a low roll front flip and skid, angling himself to grab onto Eric's legs. "HE AINT NO EAGLE NO MORE, GRONKOWSKI. NO MORE. THOSE DAYS ARE _OVER_. FOR HIM _AND_ FOR ME." But it was too late, Eric was crying, tears streaming down his face. 

Gronk tried to escape Brady's hold, "LEWIS EAGLE _TOO??? LEWIS BAD!!!!_ "

"Nonono he's not, they're not bad, shhhhhshhhhhshh, m'here Rob, I'm right here..." Brady soothed.

Danny Amendola shook his head, feeling the air leave his lungs too soon after every breath. "What about me, Gronk? WHAT ABOUT ME? Where do you think I came from?"

Gronk growled, beating a fist into the earth but Brady held onto his face and kept on humming softly, keeping Gronk in the moment. 

"It's different for you, Danny." Eric said. "You were _cut_  almost immediately." Eric turned to Lewis, "And you, Dion... you were there forever ago. But me... I..." his voice cracked, "I was there just last year." 

"Eric. ERIC ROWE. YOU'RE A _PART_  OF THIS TEAM, OKAY?" Chris Hogan chimed in, walking over to join the drama. "We are a _family_. A Mother fucking family!"

_"Woah, Hogan!" "Stay away from my mom, boy!" "Never talk about a black man's moms like that, fool!" "You ain't fuckin' my motha, Hogan!" "What your mouth, bro!" "Leave my mom outta this, aight? Sheeeet." "My mom ain't got nothin to do with you."_

Chris tried his best to steady his shoulders, clearing his throat he spoke with dignity. "N..not my point, but... I uh, uh I... I apologize for that uh,... that reference."

Eric rubbed his lips together, squeezing them between his teeth and then turned away, jogging off the field. "I'd like to be alone please!" he cried out. 

Dion Lewis, Danny Amendola, Robert Gronkowski, and Chris Hogan all watched the #25 of his jersey disappear through the darkened tunnel as he bolted for locker room's privacy. The only one who didn't watch was Tom Brady, for he was still holding onto Gronk's face and humming softly. 

Finally, Gronk felt the pieces click into place. His shoulder dropped, muscles relaxing. Brady ran his hands down his neck and shoulders in a heavy strokes. "You're back. You're here. You're _right here._ " 

"Tom..." Gronk whimpered. 

"Yeah, baby, I got you." 

"Tom, I'm sorry..." Gronk blinked rapidly but Brady pulled him into his body and hugged him tight, hands firm on Gronk's helmet.

A slow clap filled the air, just a single set of hands. And then a familiar voice echoed through the stadium. "I see you're still your touchy feely self, Tommy boy." Wes Welkers called out from the bleachers.

Immediately Tom pulled away from Gronk and turned to face Wes, shock in his eyes. 

* * *

"H-Hello... Malcolm?" Eric Rowe whispered into his cell phone.

"Yes...?"

"It's me... Eric."

"Eric Rowe! Dude, what's up. Didn't think I'd  be hearing from you this week... both our teams be practicing like crazy for next Sunday."

"I know, I'm sorry to bother you."

"It's okay, Eric. I'm glad to hear from you. How are you?"

"Not so good."

"Why?"

"It's the Patriots... I still feel like I don't belong sometimes... and I just, I sometimes just wish you had come with me? Or I had just stayed with the Eagles, with _you_. I know it's silly and stupid but... it's hard without a friend."

"Eric... _Eric_.. do you remember what I told you?"

"Y-yes..."

"Tell me what I told you, Eric." 

"But Jenkins..."

"Just say it, Eric."

"You told me that--  _everything happens for a reason_. You said-- _whatever you do, just keep working, because you’re going to be great one day_."

"I meant every word of it, Eric. Every damn word." 

"Malcolm Jenkins, #27... just two numbers ahead of my number. It's fitting really; you're always two steps ahead of me."

"Listen Eric, no matter what happens during this game, we're both gonna be great. And we're both gonna go get dinner together. And we're both gonna stay best friends forever."

"I love you, Jenkins."

"I love you more, Rowe."


	24. Getting Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things may never be fully understood, but for some players in the NFL, getting answers is the most important thing.

An unknown number lit up Tom Brady's slick phone screen before the irritating sound of its vibrations hummed against the plastic and metal surface of his at-home elliptical trainer. He'd had his headphones plugged into the jack and was keeping a slow, steady pace as dinner cooked upstairs, and was watching an old episode of _Friends._ Tom exhaled a tight breath, his cheeks puffed out, and he yanked his earbuds out, and resigned to answering the call.

"Hello, Tom speaking."

There was silence and Tom pulled the phone away from his ear to check if they'd hung up. Light moisture coated the glossy surface, but it appeared that he was _connected._

"Hellllooo?" Tom asked again. This time, a deep, steady, heavy breathing answered him and Tom frowned. "Rob? You alright?"

The breathing got louder and heavier, wheezing as though the person on the other end suffered from asthma. Tom furrowed his brows and was about to hang up when he heard a voice.

" _Fiveeee_...." the voice was low, gravelly, but somehow high-pitched. Tom's heart rate climbed and thundered in his chest.

"Five?"

" _Fiveeee.... riiiinnngssss._..." Tom tugged the phone away from his ear again, staring at the bright screen that reflected the connected call, the strange number across the top. He should have just hung up. He shouldn't have answered at all. But what Tom Brady did was press the phone against his ear just in time to hear the completion of the person's sentence. " _S'allllll you.... willllll everrr.... HAVEEEE, Tom Braaaadyyyy._ _Fiiiiiveeeee....._ "

The line went dead as soon as he opened his mouth to tell them off. Tom inhaled a deep breath and his legs came to a stop, balancing on the two foot pedals of the elliptical trainer. He scrolled into his recent calls and immediately pressed _call back_ on the mysterious number.

The receiver beeped in three, melodic successions. Then, a computerized, female voice- "the number you are trying to reach has been disconnected. Please check the number you have dialed and try again." The beeps blared in his ear for a second time before the woman spoke the same message.

Tom hung up, turned off the television on his elliptical, and hopped off the machine.

He was still staring at his phone for several long, drawn out seconds, Tom's eyes darted between the names of the three people he had trusted most in the whole of his football career (aside from Bill Belichick, but that was unsaid).

 **Drew.**  
                                                                   **Wes**.      
                                                                                                                                     **Julian**.

Tom licked his lips, chose a name, and typed out his message while reading it aloud to himself.

* * *

 **TOM BRADY [5:15PM]** : Hey, you free later tonight? Got something I need to talk about.

He inhaled deeply, his lips forming into a pout as he stared at his phone. He had not _expected_ a message from Tom Brady, but he couldn't say he was surprised. The Super Bowl was fast approaching, and even though the old Quarter Back was well used to the constant shade thrown his way and thrived off of proving people wrong, the man was _not_ made of steel. Or diamonds. He could never remember which was the stronger material, but whatever it was, Tom Brady was not made of it, but was made, instead, of whatever came in second (in other words, the guy was _strong,_ but not impenetrable).

 **[5:16PM]:** Sure man, just tell me where to meet you.

 **TOM BRADY [5:16PM]:** The usual spot. 7:30.

 **[5:16PM]:** Okay. See you then.

He stowed his phone back in his pocket.

"Who was that?" asked Jeffey Lurie.

"No one to concern yourself over," he replied, smiling with a soft easiness before returning to eating his dinner.

* * *

Rob Gronkowski stood, alone, in the center of Gillette Stadium, staring up towards the bleachers with a pouty squint in his eye. One side of his mouth pulled up into a vague sneer and black, army paint was smeared messily against his cheeks. He was standing in the precise spot that Barry Church had rammed into him, their helmets colliding so aggressively that it left the Hulk of the Patriots woozy when he stood. He barely remembered the moment now. But he remembered how it made him _feel._

"I'm sorry," he whispered into the breeze, allowing his apology to Tre'Davious White and the whole Patriots team for their subsequent loss to the Dolphins to breathe life into Gillette Stadium

 _Literally_.

Movement caught the corner of his eye, and Gronk shifted clumsily to watch as an older couple entered the stands accompanied by Gillette Stadium security on either side of them. They were staring at Rob as they made their way towards the field.

Had his apology woken some kind of eternal Gillette spirit? Was this Vince Lombardi and his wife, coming to forgive him for his sins? Would he receive an amazing pep talk?

Rob was so still as they approached. The older gentleman was not that tall (compared to himself), maybe about as tall as Julian or Danny, but his wife was so tiny she looked like an elf. Rob couldn't help but laugh at his own thoughts. They hobbled towards him and it took Rob a few moments to detect where a sudden voice was coming from.

"Rob, you know the team is not meeting for another hour?"

He whipped around, searching the faded purple sky for answers. Concussion protocol would still leave him limited for practice, but it was slowly becoming a non-issue.

Finally, his eyes landed on the security guard to the right of the old, elf woman.

"You okay buddy?"

"HELL YEAH! Gronk good," he replied, beaming. "GRONK SPIKE! AMIRIGHHTTT?" Gronk threw the football he'd been holding straight towards the ground, releasing a booming laugh.

"Hell yeah!" the security guard on the left replied, going in for a quick high-five from the infamous tight end. Rob hit his hand so hard the man fell backwards.

"Shit ha! Sorry, bro!" Rob offered his hand, helping the blushing guy to his feet.

"S'okay ha. My fault."

"Rob," the other security guard said. "This is Jerry and Bette Davis of Jacksonville, Florida. They were getting a tour of the stadium, but I'm sure they're excited to meet you. Huge fans of the Pats."

"Yooo! Jacksonville? Really?" Rob asked, his mind traveling back to the last game of which he'd played but a few measly plays before Barry Church pummeled him. He tried to shake it off, his expression quickly growing distant.

"Yup. The very same as the Jaguars," Jerry admitted. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Robert. I'm a _huge_ fan. I'll admit," he laughed nervously, scratching the back of his head as his feet shuffled. "Came here to New England as Jaguars fans but-- then we saw the video."

"The VIDEO?" Rob asked, not understanding this strange language. "WHAT?"

"Yeah, the movie they play in The Hall," Jerry replied, laughing meagerly. "You know, it's just so inspiring. I never looked at the Patriots like that before. But now-- I _get it,_ I get Pats Nation. I understand the work you all put in and well, let me just say. I'm converted. Loyal only to the Patriots. Bette and I are selling our house, going to the Super Bowl, and moving into a cheap apartment outside Foxborough so we never miss a game."

Rob's mouth opened and then closed and then opened again. "Holy schnauzer on a biscuit, that's damn awesome, Jer! My MANN! YEAH!" Rob went in to chest bump with the older gentleman but the security guard caught him before he could do any damage. "Shit, you're right man. Sorry!" He held out his hand instead, shaking Jerry's firmly with a bright grin. "Appreciate your support, dude. Really!"

"It's nothing. Can't believe we're meeting  _the_ Rob Gronkowski."

Bette was smiling at his side. "It's a pleasure, young man," she chimed in, reaching out to give Rob a handshake as well.

"Alright, we better get on with the tour," the security guard on the right said. "We need to be out of here before practice. And Rob? You'd better go in, to the locker room or something. You look crazy out here. Where's Tom? Where's Bill? They know you're here?"

Rob shrugged loosely. "Gronk tells no one."

"Tells no one..... where you are?"

"GRONK. TELLS. NO. ONE!" the tight end roared. With that, he turned on his heel and jogged towards the locker room.

* * *

"LeGarrette?"

His head popped up suddenly from the table he'd rested it on, his arms crossed into a pillow.

"Wasn' sleepin', nope. Nopeeee," Blount replied tiredly. "Not me."

"Are you paying attention to anything we're saying?" Nick Foles asked. He was standing so close to Doug Pederson their shoulders touched. " _You_ and Chris need to pay attention."

Chris Long was staring at his phone, the brim of his hat shielding his face from view. He didn't like this, he didn't like this at all.

"We _need_ to know everything there is to know about the Patriots pre-Super Bowl training schedule," Nick insisted. The pair sat silently for a moment, shifting in their seats. Super Bowl 51 had been a moment no one, not a single person in the entire universe, could understand unless they were _in it,_ as a _Patriot._ It was one thing that Chris and LaGarrette had in common; that and being drafted to the Eagles at the end of the last season.

" _Well_?" Nick pressed, brows raising expectantly.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, ONE WEEK from today. Super Bowl 52. Can't handle the stress.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i don’t know what i just wrote

"...I know what it's like to _want_ the Patriots, but not be able to have them. Trust me -- I know. I tried to buy them, but couldn't, and it bothered me. Ooo, I wanted them _so bad_. Those men are so talented and attractive. I could just eat them up, I could. So you and I, we have that in common. You wanted to be a part of that team this year, but _couldn't_. And now here we both are... stuck with the Eagles." 

This was the most boring and awkward dinner  _ever_.

Legarrette Blount yawned as he listened, but Jeffrey Lurie just wouldn't shut the hell up.

(Yes, Blount wanted to still be on the Patriots this year, but it just _hadn't_ happened. It wasn't meant to be. Yes, Blound had helped the Patriots win Superbowl XLIX and LI but this year _had_ to be different. He already knew that; Jeffrey Lurie's lecture equivocated to beating a dead horse.)

One would think sitting across from the owner of the Eagles at a tiny, fancy gourmet dinner table would be more intimidating, but instead all Legarrette Blount could think about was trying to pinpoint exactly what Jeffrey Lurie reminded him of. ~~It was on the tip of his tongue too~~. Was it a boiled egg that had been rubbed against a furry cat? Uncle Fester from the Adam's Family? A small ziplock bag filled with water containing a goldfish? A slim, dusty box of Rice-A-Roni? An older pair of mid-calf socks with a yellow stripe round the top? Dr. Phil pretending to be an Australian politician? A freshly grown cucumber? Roasted Eggplant?

 _What did he look like?_ Blount just couldn't put his finger on it. Frankly, it was stressing him out so much that he was incredibly thankful to feel the buzz of his phone against his thigh. He reached for it and, well. _He had not expected a message from Tom Brady, but he couldn't say he was surprised_...

 **TOM BRADY [5:15PM]** : Hey, you free later tonight? Got something I need to talk about.

 **LEGARRETTE BLOUNT [5:16PM]:** Sure man, just tell me where to meet you.

 **TOM BRADY [5:16PM]:** The usual spot. 7:30.

 ** **LEGARRETTE BLOUNT** [5:16PM]: **Okay. See you then.

It was only _after_ Blount had responded that he realized it would be difficult to get to New England by 7:30 PM. 

"Who was that?" asked Jeffey Lurie.

"No one to concern yourself over," he replied, smiling with a soft easiness before returning to eating his dinner. Who was he kidding? He needed to eat and run! He shoveled it all down as fast as he could and tapped a napkin to the corner of his mouth. "Thanks for dinner, bye!"

* * *

Blount hurried back to Lincoln Financial Field, home of the detrimentally determined Philadelphia Eagles. A terrible darkness seemed to forever linger overhead, ground to sky a vast palette of darkened neutrals. Blount hated the way the world went silent every time he approached the vicinity of the stadium. He bit his lip and took hold of the large ring shaped door handle, wrought of iron. It was heavy. He lifted and released, letting the bang of his arrival send an alert. Slowly the door creaked open, and Blount stepped inside of the morbid tomb-like stadium. 

Endless plumes of smoke and dust swiveled near the floorboards. An occasional column of fire burst free from the floor, shooting up in a swirl. Blount hated that the most about the Eagles' stadium. _So dangerous_. He narrowly avoided burning his dreadlocks off before rounding a corner and ducking ten arrows being shot from a wall, before racing into the Eagles' locker room. He needed to pack his things and get to New England -- _quick_. 

At the time, Nick Foles was plastered onto the ceiling above, but of course, Blount did not know. Foles made sure to use the best brand of Mission Impossible wiring that he could find, creating a spiderweb contraption that would allow him to lurk overhead and spy on his teammates, a few of which were former Patriots. It had cost him an arm and a leg, but he was sure his investment would eventually pay off.

While heading towards his locker, Blount froze, for he _did_ feel a set of eyes on him in the room. He glanced over his shoulder but saw nothing. When he looked forwards he nearly screamed for a figure had appeared. 

"Hey! Woh! _Chill --_  it's just me."

"Jesus! You scared me, Chris."

Chris Long gave a hesitant chuckle, placing both hands on Blount's shoulders to calm his friend down. "It's just us in here. What's wrong? You okay?"

Blount shook his head. "No! No, I'm not okay. You can't tell anyone but... Brady texted me."

Nick Foles' eyes widened, and his eyebrows narrowed. _Ah-ha! He knew it_. _Something was up with those ex-patriots_.

Long's brows furrowed. "Brady??? Woah, seriously? That's not like him."

"I know!"

" _Well_ \-- what did he say??"

"Come here, Chris. I'll show you." 

The two men took a seat at the table. Blount handed Long his phone and crossed his arms into a pillow, laying his head down as his ruminated the possibilities, both good and bad, of what this could mean. Long examined Blount's phone, reading the text conversation between Blount and Brady. The two men ignored the voices in the background. 

~~_"What are you doing up there? Get the hell down from there!"_ ~~

~~_"I.. I'm trying!"_ ~~

~~_"What the hell, Foles!"_ ~~

~~_"Hold on, I got it... I just.. this strap here... it's stuck..."_ ~~

~~_"For Wentz Sake, hurry it up!"_ ~~

Doug Pederson stepped into the light, followed slyly by a sauntering Nick Foles, whose hair appeared disheveled. His clothes were cut up in certain spots and there were thin creases in his skin, as though he'd just spent a lot of time pressed up against thin lines of some sort. 

Pederson and Foles exchanged a look (two ex-pats?!) and decided to take advantage of the opportunity that had presented itself. They started up a meeting interrogating both Chris and Blount. Twenty minutes into the meeting Blount's head popped up from the table... _how the hell had he managed to fall asleep when he needed to be in New England in an hour?_

Long released a huge sigh. He'd read the text convo between Blount and Brady about a million times. He slid the phone back to Blount and redirected his attention back to Nick and Pederson. "Need I remind you I left by _choice?_ I want nothing to do with the Patriots. I forgot about them the second I moved to Philly."

Nick Foles nodded. "Maybe so. But _you!-_ " he pointed to Blount. "You. _Speak_."

Blount raised both hands to the right side of his dreadlocks, petting his braids nervously. "I... I..."

Foles seethed. 

Pederson whipped a chair out from the table and placed it besides Blount, spinning it around so he could straddle the back. "Hey bigshot. Looky here. C'mon, right  here. Look me in the eyes."

Blount's breathing quivered but he met his coach's eyes. 

Pederson nodded. "There we go, that's good. Now. _Tell me_. Everything. About Tom Brady."

Blount's nostrils flared for how deep his breaths were coming.

Chris Long laughed.

Nick and Pederson shifted their gazes to Chris. 

Long continued to chuckle. "It's _Amendola_ you gotta be worried about."

Blount's expression tightened and he shot Chris a hard glare, a silent plead to shut up.

Nick Foles felt as though he'd explode. "TELL ME ABOUT TOM BRADY."

Pederson jumped up from his chair and ran around to Nick's side. "Heyhey woahh there, woaaah nelly. Steadyyy... steadyy.. there you go.. don't go getting all spooked on me..." Pederson brushed Nick's hair gently, patted his back a few times and fed him a carrot. 

Nick chewed mercilessly on the carrot. 

"That's a good boy," Pederson encouraged. 

"I have an idea." Chris Long shrugged his shoulders, "Me and Blount here'll take a ride up to New England and share quick word with our _friend_." He winked at Blount. 

They all saw him wink. 

No one knew what to make of the wink. 

Blount nodded. "I say that's a good plan." 

Nick squinted, prominently suspicious. ~~_Plus, he knew about the texts from Brady. He'd overheard it all_~~.

"On one condition," Pederson stated simply. "Lane Johnson joins you."

As if on cue, Lane Johnson stepped out from the shadows of the locker room. His burley arms were crossed over his muscular chest as he nodded slow. "Fuck Tom Brady." Was all he said. 

Blount and Chris Long stared. Chris even went so far as to lift his eyebrows. They both exchanged a look and nodded. "Deal."

Pederson clapped his hands. "Well then. It's agreed to. You three will take the Silverspeed Eagle." He pulled a whistle out from his beneath his shirt and blew into it. A majestic silver Eagle flew into the room, spilling brilliant glitter with every flap of its wing. Chris Long, Lane Johnson and Legarrette Blount all climbed onto the Eagle. 

Pederson and Nick waved the three men off. 

* * *

The Silverspeed Eagle arrived just in time to drop Blount off at Dunkin Donuts in Foxborough.  Ten minutes later Brady walked in. 

Blount was breathing heavily, felt as though he'd break under the pressure of knowing Lane Johnson and Chris Long were close by... watching and hearing everything that this secret meeting would entail. 

"Hey, man. Thanks for meeting me on such short notice. I realized after I sent the text that you were in Philly and like, I know this was probably an inconvenience." Brady took a seat at a table. 

Blount sat down too, rather stiffly. He didn't say a goddamn word. 

Brady leaned in a little, "I don't mean to make you feel uncomfortable but there's something I gotta tell you." 

"RAINBOW SPRINKLES DONUT!" Blount blurted.

Brady hesitated. 

"I need me a rainbow sprinkles donut!!" Blount popped up from his seat and gestured to Brady, "You want anything? I'm gonna get a rainbow sprinkles donut."

"Oh. Yeah, sure I'll get it -- I mean I'm the one who asked you out here..."

"NOIT'SFINE. WHATDOYOUWANT." Blount feared he would crawl out of his skin if he didn't _move_  before they spoke.

"Uh... grab me a plain green tea, small please." Brady relaxed into his chair, feeling a bit guilty. Blount was clearly stressed out and it was all his fault for texting him and insisting they meet in their usual spot, which was so very far from Philly.

* * *

If it was up to Amendola, Brady would feel a hell of a lot more guilty than he actually did. See, Amendola had spotted Brady on the move. He couldn't help but notice. He noticed _everything_. 

He spied on Brady through the window when suddenly -- a tap on his shoulder disturbed him. Amendola turned to see Chris Long in the flesh, standing right before him. 

Chris Long wasn't at all ready for the emotions he felt in that moment. " _Danny_ ," he gleefully exasperated. 

" _Chris,_ " Danny replied. 

The two men embraced fully, clinging, making low sort of grunting noises to voice their absolute delight.

* * *

Back inside Dunkin, Brady sipped his green tea and waited for Blount to stop saying _okokokokigotthis_ to himself. After Blount went quiet Brady sighed and began to speak. "Nick Foles has been sending me suggestive texts, and today he called and _threatened_ me." 

Blount blinked his eyes. "Wait. That's it?"

"Yeah. I dunno. I guess I could've told you that over the phone but I wasn't thinking," Brady shrugged. "Anyways, yeah that's it."

Blount could've smacked his forehead for all the relief he felt in that moment. 

Lane Johnson, however, felt no relief at all as he monitored the meeting from afar. "Fuck Tom Brady," he muttered to himself, suddenly enraged that he felt as though he couldn't trust his own quarterback. Was it possible? Could it truly be?-- that Nick Foles had sabotaged Carson Wentz to seduce Tom Brady? 

* * *

"Let's go, Patriots!" Julian pointed to several duck statues wearing a Patriots jerseys. "WHOOOO, baby, let's go Pats!!" After uploaded the instagram story he found his enthusiasm die rather rapidly. He stuffed his phone into his pocket and headed over to strip all the duck statues of the Patriots shirts that he'd spent the last ten minutes dressing them in.

What was becoming of his life without football?

Just as he tugged the final shirt off a duck statue he head a single set of hands applauding him. He turned to spot the intruding presence. _"Wes?"_ He spat quizzically.

" _Edelman_ ~ I see you won't be making any Super Bowl catches this year."

"The heck you doin' here?" Julian asked, totally shocked.


	26. Flyin' High Missin' Kicks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's some unfinished business going on.

He could have _sworn_ their gazes had met.

Tom's eyes, an air force blue and _always_ sad, somehow, had bulged at the precise moment of contact. Wes, who'd been wearing a simple, unbiased sea foam green button up beneath a steel gray, leather jacket paused in the stadium, his fingers twitching at his sides. He'd been about to raise his left hand in a subtle wave when the Quarter Back turned tail and rushed into the locker room ahead of his team.

When Wes stopped Matt Patricia to ask him about it, the bearded man mumbled something about Tom not recognizing him or not seeing him or being too busy...

But Wes Welker could spot an excuse from a mile away.

There was no way in hell that Tom Brady had not recognized _him,_ his old favorite.

_**Old**._

Had Tom grown accustomed to the touch of a younger hand? Julian, Danny, Rob, Brandin, Dion, James... The young men Tom had begun to rely on _most_ as the seasons between his final game as a Patriot and his retirement to a coach grew and grew; just as Tom's team. He'd passed the ball off to countless other receivers, linebackers, tight ends... All of whom were _not him._

Wes kicked a pebble along the sidewalk as he wandered the streets of Boston on an unusually climate evening for a New England January. He'd found a hotel for the night, and was debating if he would just get back on a plane the following morning and head straight back to Texas. With some of his players heading to the ProBowl, he  _knew_ he should have been  _there,_ and not  _here_ chasing dreams that were no longer his.  

That was when Wes spotted him. Unmistakable in his gait, the slight favoring of one leg, the hooting and hollering about the _New England Patriots_ as he dressed and undressed  _turtle statues_ in that _twangy_ accent of his (for a boy from California, like Tom, he sounded almost _Southern_ when he was letting loose; that annoyed him. _Wes_ was the Southern one, here).

He couldn't _not_ say 'hey' despite all of the _things_ consuming his mind. Running into a Patriot in public was rare, and whatever animosity Wes Welker shared with Julian Edelman, he could see the pain behind those pigeon blue eyes of his.

 _"The heck you doin' here?"_ Julian asked, totally shocked.

Wes ran a gloved hand through his short, neat hair and shrugged.

"Julian, s'about time you 'n I had a talkin', boy," Wes replied, exaggerating his own southern accent as though it were some kind of _competition._

"What if I don't want to talk to _you,"_ Julian spat back, defensive. He observed the visible flinch that flitted across Wes's hard features and didn't give the former wide receiver a moment to respond. "Yo, man, I'm _sorry,_ I don't know why I said that, man. I just didn't think anyone was around. I'm _trying_ not to be so defensive but I lost my outlet, man!" Julian gestured vaguely to his right leg, his nose scrunching in self-loathing and regret for this fucking _injury_ that _could_ very well have ended his career. He supposed, in some way, he'd been lucky that it hadn't been worse. 

"Do you want to talk to not?" Wes asked, stepping forward to place a soft, gentle hand on Julian's shoulder. They had a complicated history. Bred into a team that discouraged trash talking, both had allowed words they should not have said to jab the other. Both blamed a heavy-handed drink or two and the power of _playing around_ like _bros,_ but there'd been some truth to their harsh words. Some unspoken tension. ~~Some _jealousy,_ more like it.~~

Julian shrugged loosely.

"Fine, yeah, let's go."

Wes smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Your place? Or my hotel?"

"My place is fine."

"Cool."

* * *

 

 _"The heck you doin' here?"_ Danny asked Chris Long at precisely the exact moment Julian asked the same of Wes Welker just miles away.

The words spoken simultaneously by the two best wide receivers in the industry met somewhere midair, doing a tango of sorts as they breathed life into one another. There was a spark, suddenly, in the air, but the only one who had noticed it was Bill Belichick. He'd been sitting at his dimly lit desk in his Nantucket home, reading playbooks. Bill glanced up, his brows knit closer than usual, and frowned deeply. His deadpan expression reflected in a yellow hue in the second window of his massive home for just a moment before Bill went back to his studies.

"Well, long story. Can't really _sayyyy,"_ Chris Long replied, beaming. Danny was bouncing on the balls of his feet, a bright grin on his lips.

"Okay, man, whatever. It's good to see you! I can't believe you're _here,"_ Danny beamed.

"Yeah, good to see you, too," Chris replied, his tone a _little_ less eager than the other's. The truth was, it'd been hard to leave New England. No matter _what_ anyone said, no matter _how_ much people talked. He'd made his choices and he'd made them for himself. Sometimes, all one had to do to get out of an impossible situation was to walk away. He'd forgotten how much everything hurt until right now, looking into Danny's chocolate brown eyes and eager expression. "I can't stay, though. So uh- guess... Guess I'll see you in another week..."

Danny frowned, sad that his friend was leaving so soon, but he nodded.

"Hey, man, yeah. I'll see you at the BOWLLLL! Can you believe we are facing each other? Crazy, right?" Chris nodded vaguely, his eyes focused on Danny's shoes, his lips tight. "Hey, Chris. Good luck. You're a great player, man."

Chris glanced up at him then, tears beginning to form on his eyes; but he _would not let them fall._ He forced a smile, nodded, and patted Danny on the shoulder. "Thanks. You too."

Danny was about to hug him. Chris _sensed_ that Danny was about to hug him because Chris _always_ knew when Danny was about to hug him. But he didn't let him. Instead, Chris stepped back, gave a quick, half-assed wave, and rounded the corner to wait for Lane and LaGarrette, the tears he'd been holding back now trailing over the apples of his cheeks.

* * *

 

LaGarrette Blount did not want to head back to Philly with Lane Johnson, but he supposed he had no choice.

When the fluttering wings of the eagle landed back at the stadium, Blount climbed off and stared over at Lane, who'd been mysteriously quiet the entire ride back.

"What's up, man?" Blount asked.

"NOTHING."

_Woah, defensive._

Blount squinted and released a scoff, shaking his head. "Whatever, man," he muttered. Being back in Patriots territory reminded him of where he'd come from. There was no shit talking there, which was precisely what the Eagles thrived off of. He squinted towards the locker room as the doors burst open and Nick Foles tumbled out in a  _grand fashion_ before he hopped back to his feet. Hanging off his neck was a cape that billowed out behind him rather theatrically, but LaGarrette had long since decided that questioning the stand-in Quarter Back was not a good idea. 

" _Soooooo?"_ Nick asked breathlessly.

"You." Lane stood stoic beside Blount. Nick froze in his tracks, brows scrunching as he searched between the three men. Chris's eyes were distant, refusing to look at him. Blount appeared relaxed beneath his vague agitation. But Lane. Lane fucking Johnson, the man who  _promised_ with a thirsty vengeance to dethrone Tom Brady, had fire burning in his eyes. 

"What?" Nick asked, confused. "What'd you discover? Are they _traitors?"_ Nick pointed at Chris and LaGarrette accusingly. "I _knew it._ I KNEW it! **TRAITORS**!"

"You."

LaGarrette's eye roll did not go unnoticed, but he was staring at Lane now, curious.

"YOU. I know what you did."

LaGarrette could have _sworn_ he saw the color drain from Nick's already pasty face, his eyes bulging subtly; but Nick pulled himself together quickly.

"It's _them_ we gotta worry about," Nick insisted. "Traitors."

" _ **YOU**_."

Nick took a slow step back, his foot catching on his cape and sending him tumbling backwards to the ground.

* * *

"Oh _stop!"_

A giggle rang through the crisp night air, sending a plume of fog from his parted lips towards the cloud-stained sky. Stephen Gostkowski batted at Ryan Allen's hands as the younger punter tickled his sides, laughing.

"Not until you say uncle!"

"Never!" Stephen's eyes sparkled as he wiggled beneath Ryan's touch, his ass growing numb against the cold, metal bench overlooking a small lake in Boston. But it was too much. Ryan's fingers moved up towards the warmth of his armpits where the placekicker was  _most_ ticklish. No one knew that better than Ryan.  _No one._ Before Ryan's fast, precise fingers could get there, however, Stephen threw his head back and shouted. "UNCLE! Alright, alright, uncle! Stop, stop!" He was laughing so hard it caused a stitch in his side and Stephen bent forward, his arms hugging himself protectively the moment Ryan's hands fell away. 

"You are so goddamn ticklish," Ryan commented, shaking his head as he shifted away from his teammate, fixing his gaze on the black water. There was a thin, cracked sheet of snow white ice across part of the surface. "Hey, Stephen? You ever wonder what the fish do in winter? Like- freshwater fish? Back home in Oregon, dad used to take me fishing on weekends. Said _'Ryan, you learn to fish, you feed yourself for life, no matter what.'_ Dad was a bit of a survivalist." Stephen's lips had fixed into a permanent smile as he studied Ryan Allen's profile.

"I don't know, Ry," Stephen replied. "Never really thought about it. But that's a good question. Maybe they have some sort of... regulatory system that lets them like... survive in cold weather. I imagine if they live in Boston, they are used to the temperature fluctuations and have been built to survive it or whatever." Stephen paused and reached over to wrap a hand around the back of Ryan's neck. His skin was so warm to the touch that he allowed his pinky to dip down, sinking beneath the t-shirt that poked out from Ryan's black, bubble coat. "You must be like your dad. You are so smart and good at _surviving_ difficult situations. No one on the team is more consistent than you, Ryan. And I stand by that."

Ryan's brows furrowed and he glanced over at Stephen quickly, shaking his head. His hand, too, rose to cup the back of Stephen's neck. "Hey, you're great, too, man. I just do the punting sometimes, and ball holding for you. But _you,_ you _get_ points. You _earn_ them."

The return smile was almost sad. "Thank you," he whispered. "You always make me feel better, Ry." Stephen hadn't forgotten how he'd nearly lost the Super Bowl for the Patriots last year. Missing an easy kick for an extra point and that pathetic onside kick in addition to other, smaller infractions had really taken a toll on his self esteem. No matter how much the Patriots had assured him, afterward, that they were proud of him no matter _what,_ he would never forget the look on Bill's face after his fuck ups. With Super Bowl 52 looming, Stephen knew he could _not_ make the same mistakes. They might not get so lucky next time.

"Hey, Mr. Grumpy. Don't be thinking that way," Ryan whispered. His eyes shifted around, making sure there was no one watching, and then leaned forward, resting his forehead against Stephen's temple. "I see it in your eyes. You were the unsung hero last year. Don't even pretend you don't know that. You'll do great. You broke your record and then broke it _again_ this year. You've come so far. You _got this,_ Steve."

Stephen nodded against Ryan's head, closing his eyes. "I hope so," he whispered. "I hope so."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING. Today the Patriots are flying to Minnesota for the Super Bowl. I can't breathe!!!


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> short, but gay.

Belichick surveyed Tom’s casual outfit as they headed into Super Bowl LII Opening Night. “You forget to do your laundry or something?”

Tom cocked his head, lifting his eyebrows at his teammates whom each wore the same thing he had on; matching windbreakers with their team logo and Super Bowl LII emblem. 

Belichick froze, uncomfortable as he realized tonight was  _not_  a suit and tie affair. 

Tom chuckled and nudged Bill with his elbow. “You look great, coach. Really stepped your game up. I love it.” 

“Tom, I… I can’t go in there like this.” 

“Sure you can.”

“I’m  _not_  going in there like this.”

“Don’t sweat it. Let’s just go and enjoy this thing.” Wtih a smile, Tom gestured at his coach to take the lead. Bill drew a ragged breath and gripped Tom’s arm hard. 

“No.”

Tom glanced down at Bill’s grip on his arm.

“Tom, you don’t understand. I…” Belichick shook his head. “I’m going to look so damn silly.” 

“You won’t,” Tom replied softly.

“Are you sure? I mean-”

“Trust me, you could  _never_  look silly. Greatest coach of all time, remember?”

“Not true.”

Tom continued, “You could wear a burlap sack and still look amazing in my eyes.”

“…thanks, Tom.” Bill resigned. 

“You’re welcome. I’m telling you; you got this.”

After a moment Bill said, “You look good tonight, too, Tom. You look…” Bill nodded, eyes roving over his quarterback. “Well, you always look good but tonight you look relaxed ‘er something.”

Tom smiled, nodding. “Thanks yeah, I feel relaxed.”

Bill studied Tom suspiciously. “ _Good_. That’s good.” But after another moment he whispered, “Eighteen years, can you believe it?”

Tom’s lips parted, but for a moment he was speechless. His eyes stung with emotion as he replied, “I can.” 

Bill and Brady looked at each other. Brady’s eyes, moist with tears; Bill’s totally blank. Finally Bill shrugged his shoulders, trying to loosen up, trapped in his all too formal attire. Tom reached forward and straightened Bill’s lapels with a grin. 

* * *

"Four extra'r y'urs." Wes spat at Julian, once again enunciating his southern accent to prove that he was better (at everything) than Julian.

Julian appeared confused. "What?"

"I said... _fur extror yours_."

"Bro... I don't...? I don't know what you're saying."

Wes huffed. "I SAID... four extra years! That's how much longer you've been Brady's wide receiver than me."

"Oh! Okay." Julian nodded. The two men were sitting in Julian's living room watching live footage of the Opening Night of the Super Bowl. With a bored sigh, Julian shoved the lifted part of the recliner down with his calves and headed towards the kitchen calling out, "You want a soda or something? M'thirsty." 

Wes jumped off his chair and hurried after Julian, grabbing the other by his shoulders and twisting him around so they could stand face to face. "Why do you do it?" 

"Do what?" Julian asked, oblivious.

"Why do you pretend you and Tom are _so_ damn close?"

"I'm NOT fucking pretending! We're best friends, so back the fuck off, will ya?!" Julian pinched the bridge of his nose. "Jesus, sorry; that was kinda defensive. I'm still working on like, not being so rough around the edges but I got this temper- got it from my dad I think." 

"Look, Edelman --- I'll admit we've had our moments, you and I, but I'm telling you this as a _friend_. You need to drop this whole act about being close to Brady. I'm telling you. Tom Brady is _Tom Brady_. And you aren't going to matter to him after this season. You, my friend, are off the field. You are _not_ benefiting him. If anything, the only thing your existence is doing is getting in his way. Once you get in Brady's way, that's it -- you're out."

Julian appeared a bit taken aback by Wes's sudden announcement. "I ..." but he felt at a loss for words. Could it be true?

Just then, the TV in Julian's living room echoed Tom Brady's voice. 

"Who is your man crush?" The female reporter asked Tom Brady.

And so Brady said, "Jules... Amendola... Gronk... Justin Timberlake."

And Wes's jaw dropped.


	28. Reflections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> okay this got a bit more serious than intended but its still gay.

There had been a pregnant pause. A soft smile. A bashful, almost silent chuckle.

But there was a twinkle in his eye. Warm and misty, those baby blues reflected what only Tom knew; but it was _fear_ that Julian Edelman recognized.

_So much had transpired in just one year._

He was on the edge of his seat, searching Tom Brady's eyes through the screen; the famed Quarter Back now halfway across the country. He had to wonder if, somehow, Tom could feel his eyes, searing him with what he needed to hear. Finally, Tom glanced up, his rosy cheeks wrinkling in a hallow smile.

 _"Man. I'd say..."_ W **ho would you say, Tom?** " _Jules, Danny, and Gronk. Those guys are pretty good looking guys. None of them are married, either. Can you imagine that?"_

Another pause as Tom released a strangled laugh before adding, _"And_ _Justin Timberlake. I love Justin a lot, too."_

Julian heard no more. The questions shifted, moving on to things Julian already knew about TB12, Tom Brady, the Avocado to his Ice Cream, the GOAT. In his chest, his heart thumped so hard he feared it might escape. His cheeks flared red and Julian's blue eyes stared without seeing.

"Oh, cerm'n now, boy!"

He didn't hear Wes as the Texans assistant coach shouted obscurities in the background. Julian only had eyes (and ears) for Tom Brady.

First on his list.

He was _first on his list._ As irrelevant to the team as Julian Edelman had been this season, he was first on Tom Brady's list of _man crushes._

A massive smile consumed his face and Julian whipped around, finding Wes Welker's eyes.

"Told ya I wasn't making things up--" but Julian stopped gloating almost instantly. When Wes turned to face him, there were tears in his eyes. Julian's brows furrowed and he _almost_ got up, _almost_ felt sorry for the man he'd deemed as a frenemy. But he didn't. Of course he didn't. They didn't hug. Hell, they didn't even acknowledge each other anymore, now that Wes had moved on to coaching another team.

"He didn't even mention me," Wes murmured, palming his eyes to absorb the moisture. "Not even so much as a nod to me."

"Sorry, man I mean--"

"--No. I'm sorry. You-- you made it. You are Tom's number one, man. You're the real deal," Wes whispered. "Must be _so_ proud of yourself, right? Must _love_ hearing those compliments he throws your way. But how old are you now, Jules? How much longer do you think you'll play? Another injury like that one, you'll be done. And then who will Brady rely on? You'll be another _Wes Welker_ before you know it."

"The _fuck_ you know about anything?" Julian snapped. "Shit. Sorry, kinda-- overreacted. But _really,_ man. You're the one who couldn't agree to a contract with the Pats and chose the Broncos. The fucking  _BRONCOS,_ man. You know... Danny..." he paused for just a moment, thinking about Danny Amendola, his true blue. _God,_ he loved Danny, but it was Tom that was for him. Always had been. "Took pay cuts to stay with us. That's what loyalty is."

"You don' know what you's talkin' 'bout, boyo!"

"Cut it with the accent, man!"

"YOU cut it!" Wes snapped. "I hear that fucking twang in your voice on the field. Think you got Brady wrapped around your little finger. Know he's got a taste for Southern boys, do you?"

"Listen man, I don't have time for your jealousy right now. If you want to talk to Tom again, that's on you. But you can't be mad at me for playing a _game."_

"It was never just a game."

"No, you're right," Julian agreed, nodding, his lips pressed tight. "You're right, man. It is more than a game. Sorry."

Wes's gaze did not leave Julian's.

"Congrats on getting what you want then. See you when I see you."

Wes was out the door before Julian could stop hm.

* * *

There were two moments that impacted his football career more than any others on record.

September 23, 2001.

Just weeks after the United States of America had been under attack marking history and changing the course of _everything,_ Drew Bledsoe was set to lead the Patriots against the New York Jets in a game meant to lift spirits and remind Americans about _who they were._ It'd been a beautiful day with hardly a cloud in the sky, and despite the solemn quiet that seemed to permeate across the entire country, there was _hope,_ too. They were in the final quarter of the game; which they were losing, but had the _chance_ to tie, and win, when Mo Lewis crashed into Drew so hard the hit could be heard throughout the stadium. He was unsteady when he rose to his feet, his brain feeling buzzy and distant, his gait unnatural as he walked it off. The Quarter Back was tough, however, and remained stubborn on his feet. He reentered the game and it wasn't until it was visibly noticeable that _something_ was off that he was brought into concussion protocol. Little did he know, his hit would change the way things were done in the NFL forever. Tom Brady played the final two minutes of the game, marking the start of his legendary, admirable career.

But it wasn't until the end of the game, when Drew was changing in the locker room that he _truly_ felt off and was send to the hospital. There was internal bleeding and a concussion and Drew Bledsoe was solemn when he was told he almost died. If he'd waited, like he wanted to, he would not have survived the night.

So _yeah_ , there were times that Drew Bledsoe had felt bitter. The celebration of one Tom Brady's transition to head Quarter Back while Drew recovered was a day celebrated through New England, even to this day. _The day he almost died was celebrated._

The other day that forever changed his life was his return to the Patriots. He'd _finally_ been cleared to play again after a long recovery, but it was not with open arms that he was welcomed back. Sure, they let him play a few games, let him step in when he had to, but when Drew was told he'd been _**replaced**_ by Tom Brady, it _hurt._ That was not how it was supposed to go. He was _supposed_ to have returned, good and healthy, and lead the Patriots through a few more good years of football.

It'd been many years since then and Drew was no longer bitter. He'd had a decent career with the Bills and then the Cowboys before throwing in the towel. He had plenty of money and a cozy life, but now...

_NOW..._

Watching the opening night of Super Bowl LII as Tom Brady answered the question on who his man crush was, he would be lying if he said it did not hurt. No, he did not expect New England's admired Quarter Back to think of him as he prepared for another Super Bowl and no, Drew was under no false impression that he mattered to the team anymore, but for _some reason,_ it still _stung._

Drew removed his phone from his pocket as soon as the Eagles took the stage for their moment to shine and scrolled through his contacts.

 **Drew [10:01PM]:** Hey, Tom. Not your man crush any more, I see? :)  
 **Drew [10:01PM]:** I'm pulling your leg. I wish you luck in the Super Bowl.   
**Drew [10:02PM]:** I got a ticket. Hope to see you bring home another ring.

He tucked his phone away, a tear shimmering in his eye.

* * *

"Alright, Mr. Gronkowski, looks like you are good to go!" 

The doctor patted Rob on the shoulder, beaming up at the massive Tight End.

"Gronk good!" he shouted, pounding his chest with closed fists. The doctor smiled, nodding.

"Yes, Gronk good."

"GRONK SPIKE!" Rob yanked the clipboard from the doctor's hands and slammed it against the linoleum tiled floor.

"Oh-- oh jeeze. Okay, yep. Can't do this. Bill?!" The last word was shouted against the door.

Bill Belichick opened the door almost instantly.

"C'mon, Rob. Time to practice."

"GRONK PRACTICE!"

"Shut up."

Bill lead the way out of the doctor's office and slid into the sleek, black car he'd rented for the week. Rob got in beside him, taking up the _entire_ space, his long legs tucked against his chest as he was barely able to close the door.

"Section 3, Article 2 of the NFL rulebook?" Bill asked automatically, quizzing his player as he did every chance he got.

Rob's nose scrunched as he thought, his mind running over the dozens of pages of rules he'd memorized. Each Patriot _had_ to know each rule. Each Patriot _had_ to study opponent signals and plays and habits.

"Uhhh..." he began. "A PAT try results in what would ordinarily be a safety against either team, one point is awarded to the opponent."

"Good. And the elbow directions of the Eagles corner backs when snapping?"

Rob grinned to himself, his hazy eyes glancing out the window to the glacial landscape that was Minnesota. He could have _sworn_ he saw a rhinoceros hiding behind a bush, but Bill's car zoomed by so quick he could not be certain.

It was good to be back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what like 72 hours until the bowl? panics!!!


	29. Chapter 29

Warm smiles, slow rushing crowd, time flying.  _ **Excitement churning**_. _Such a great night. S_ _o thankful to be here_ ; and questions and ** ~~answers~~** , and question after question and smiling. ~~_Blessed to be here_~~. Eye contact. Eye contact. Eye contact. 

question  ~~ **answer**~~ after question ~~**answer**~~  
after question  ~~ **answer (blush)**~~ , after question _(kinda thirsty)_   ~~ **answer**~~

 _Tom, Tom-- are you prepared?_  
Tom-- Does this Super Bowl feel different than your last one?  
Tom-- how are you feeling in terms of your hand?

after question, question, _(keep smiling)_ after question  ~~ **answer(nervous smile)**~~ , **~~**answer  
~~**answer  
**~~**~~**_"could you repeat that?"  oh.._ ~~ **answer** _  
  
_~~_Tom, Tom, Tom-- do you feel the eagles are underdogs the way the patriots once were?_ _  
__Tom-- thumb war challenge? ( politely decline) update on the hand? (answer, smile)_ ~~~~

after question _(nod, laugh)_  
~~**answer**~~ , **~~**answer**~~** , ** ~~ ** ~~ **answer(blush)**~~**~~** , ** ~~ ** ** ~~ **answer**~~****~~**  
_smile._  
nod.  
laugh.  
~~kinda tired~~.

 _Tom, did you ever feel you'd make it to this superbowl or were you expecting it? do you feel more prepared now that you're older?_  
Tom- is it possible to get bill to smile?  
Tom- is it true that Gisele is going to be in sex and the city 3? ( ~~blush... last night~~ )  
Tom- who would you say is your man crush? ( ~~blush...~~ ) (don't frown)

 ~~answer~~.

_... check phone quick, can't respond to anything yet..._

********Bill [08:00PM]:******** pppxx  
**Bill [08:00PM]:MISSED CALL.**

_... geez... bill pocket dialed again..._

****Gisele [09:39PM]:**** You are doing so well, mi amor (my love). Te amo (i love you) :)   
****Gisele [09:39PM]:**** Can't stop thinking about last night. tan buenoo (so goood) hehe ;)  
****Gisele [09:43PM]:**** Aún puedo sentirlo (I can still feel it) <3

_... so hot, love her..._

**Drew [10:01PM]:** Hey, Tom. Not your man crush any more, I see? :)  
**Drew [10:01PM]:** I'm pulling your leg. I wish you luck in the Super Bowl.   
**Drew [10:02PM]:** I got a ticket. Hope to see you bring home another ring.

_... ..._

**Julian [10:03PM]:** Wish I was there.

_... ...? did he see it, what's he thinking, wanna know..._

**Gisele [10:45PM]:** Usted es tan guapo (you are so handsome) hehe <3 <3 te amo.   
**Gisele [10:47PM]:** te echo de menos

_... thank God she translates, but what's the second one say?..._

More questions. More answers.

* * *

Danny felt smaller than usual in Harrison's jersey, but Harrison had insisted he wear it. Media night had been long and nerve wracking, and all Danny wanted was to be near Julian again. Just wanted something comforting... something familiar and lately it felt like Julian was coming around; getting over Brady. It felt like, maybe just maybe, he had a chance. A real chance at something good. 

"Dan." 

Danny turned to spot Chris Long. He pulled a sharp breath. "Hey! Oh my God. How... how was your night, Chris?" With a lick of his lips Danny realized he wasn't sure he cared. He'd practically  begged Chris to join the Patriots only to have his friend turn around and jump ship after only a single season. Danny wanted to hate him, but it was hard to hate someone who donated their weekly paychecks to children's education. 

"It was all right. I was super nervous!" Chris swallowed hard and touched Danny's arm as he spoke. 

Danny blinked a few times, feeling uncomfortable with the unmistakable spark of desire in the pit of his stomach. Desire for a _friend_. Desire for _comfort_.  Those were dangerous feelings to have around an Eagle. Eagles were the enemy from here until Monday night. 

And then came a different voice. "Hey guys." It was Brady...? Danny appeared confused. What was Brady doing here? Didn't he have someplace to be; ruling the world somewhere? "Chris, man. Good to see you." Then Brady turned to Danny and his voice lightened right up, "Danny, hey-" he laughed, "-love the shirt. Hey I gotta grab you for a sec." He reached out to tap back of Danny's hand with his own and Danny flushed.

Why did Brady _always_ make him go red? Kinda hard to distinguish whether the feeling was good or bad.

Chris inhaled slow and nodded, stepping away... stepping right into Nick Foles who held a single rose. 

They all looked at Nick curiously.

"Errrmmmm, this for you." Nick stated dully, extending his arm out to hand Tom Brady a rose.

Chris Long exchanged glances between Foles and Brady, gauging the expressions of both men. Lane Johnson popped his head around Long's body and stared Nick down hard. 

Amendola squinted one eye.

Brady slowly accepted the rose. "From who?" He asked, eyeing Nick suspiciously. 

Nick opened his mouth and glanced up at the ceiling. "I ju- I... I um. I think, I. It's for you." 

Brady watched Nick.

Nick watched Brady.

Amendola watched both Nick and Brady. 

Chris watched Amendola.

Amendola turned to Chris, feeling the Chris's eyes on him.

Brady turned to Amendola, noticing he looked at Chris.

Land Johnson gripped Chris Long's arm, grip a vice. Chris flinched.

Amendola and Brady noticed Lane Johnson's death grip on Chris's arm. 

With everyone distracted, Nick Foles caressed Tom's arm. 

Tom shot a look at Nick, eyes widening. 

Nick yanked his arm away and everyone looked at Brady. 

Brady took Danny's hand and stumbled away. 

Lane narrowed his eyes and whispered, "Fuck Tom Brady." Chris Long sighed and nodded. 

"Hope so," Nick whispered hotly. 

Lane and Chris didn't hear him as they watched Brady take off with Danny. 


	30. Dressed to Depress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Super Bowl is too soon for these guys and the pressure is mounting.

"Heyyyyy Hoyer!" Chris Hogan slammed number two with the full force of a flat palm, clapping the backup Quarter Back's shoulder. "How's it-- WOAH!"

James Harrison turned around slowly, his near-black eyes like glimmering diamonds beneath the bright lights inside the Patriots' practice stadium in Minnesota.

"You are _definitely_ not Hoyer!" Chris chuckled.

"WHAT THE HELL MAN!" yelled Malcolm Mitchell.

"C'mon, bro, really? Gotta be like that?" asked Dorsett.

"Wowwww," disapproved Jonathan Jones.

"You really-- Damn, man, you gonna be confusing him just because he's black?" asked Alan Branch.

"What? What are you guys talking about! He's wearing Hoyer's jersey... Isn't Hoyer white?" Chris asked defensively, throwing up his hands in surrender to a bunch of "Woahhh"'s and "Really?!"'s and "C'monnnn"'s. Chris's cheeks bloomed pink and he shook his head, his nose scrunching as he gazed at his own two feet while he walked away. When he looked up, he spotted Danny Amendola ahead, wearing James Harrison's jersey. "Hey Danny!"

In the background Chris heard the group shouting towards him. "C'mon, man, you ain't be thinking that's James Harrison!? I see how it is!" "Wowww, bro isn't even trying to hide it!" "How biased!"

Danny glanced over Chris's shoulder, his brows furrowing curiously. "What's going on?" he asked, pulling up the sleeves of his jersey, of _James's_ jersey. They were halfway down his forearms and it was not exactly comfortable, but after the joke they'd pulled at media night, James had refused to give him his jersey back and the only other one he'd had with him was reserved specifically for the Super Bowl.

"Don't ask," murmured Chris, pushing past the Wide Receiver to head towards the locker room. Danny almost turned to stop him, but his eyes caught one Tom Brady tossing a ball to the _real_ Brian Hoyer. Danny jogged over to him and beamed up at the tall Quarter Back.

"Heya, Tom!" he exclaimed. Etched across Tom's face was his signature _laser focus_ look as he threw the ball again in a perfect arc, watching as it sailed towards Brian Hoyer's awaiting arms. For a moment, Danny was quiet, waiting for Tom to notice him, to acknowledge him. There must be a lot on his mind, Danny reasoned. Tomorrow night would be his eighth Super Bowl appearance. He was forty years old and even if he lived up to his dreams of playing for another five years, none of the rings he had earned had been a guarantee. Tomorrow could be snatched from them in the blink of an eye with players like Lane Johnson romping around in a ridiculous pug mask, gaining sympathy points as the "under dog," and Ashlon Jeffery talking smack and guaranteeing a victory for the Eagles and Chris Long... Well, Danny wasn't really sure _what_ was going on with Chris. Maybe he didn't _want_ to know. Maybe it was just the name Chris that caused football players to behave bizarrely. As an afterthought, Danny shot a glance towards the locker room as Chris Hogan reemerged, his helmet clasped beneath his chin as he fell into formation with Gronk and James White, doing some high kicks across the field.

But what Danny wondered _most_ was whether or not Tom had finally talked to Julian. His best friend had been feeling _awfully_ shitty for weeks. Ever since Tom had bizarrely told him never to call him again just before the Titans game, things had been rocky for Jules. Now, with the weight of the world riding on Tom's shoulders once again, he knew the Quarter Back hardly had a moment to spare for any of them, Julian included.

Media night, though, had been bizarre for all of them. With Nick Foles hand-delivering a single red-rose to Tom Brady as Tom grabbed Danny's hand, he wasn't sure _what_ to make of it all.

_Was Tom merely trying to distract Nick? Was he trying to get into the other Quarter Back's head? Was he silently giving Danny a 'thank you' for all that had transpired over the season? Was he just being good old, bizarrely affectionate Tom as shown in his self-made documentary **Tom vs. Time** (now available on Facebook)? Or was it something more? Was that small gesture meant to be something beautiful shared between two men? _

There was little secret that Tom Brady had his favorites over the years. Wide Receivers, Running Backs, and Tight Ends were often the most respected by Mr. Brady because, well, they were the ones that most frequently interacted with the Quarter Back on the field, the one's he had to trust most.

Without Jules, _**well**_. Without Jules, Tom had to rely more heavily on James White. On Rob Gronkowski. On Dion Lewis. On Brandin Cooks. On Chris Hogan. On Mike Gillislee. And on... On _Danny Amendola._ The win over the Jaguars had been difficult, but it was _Danny_ that made some of the most important touch downs of the whole game, and Danny Amendola knew, better than anyone, what that meant to Tom Brady.

Danny Amendola saw everything.

"Hey man, you're drooling."

Danny's heart jumped to his throat as a visible flinch crossed his face. He'd been spacing out for quite a while, apparently. His head pivoted to the side and he came face-to-face with one Dion Lewis.

"Don't really care. Don't really care about much," Dion sighed, his voice bizarrely flat and almost as distant as his gaze. "Just thought I'd tell you."

Danny drew his arm up to his chin, wiping away saliva with James Harrison's jersey.

"CAREFUL WITH THAT THING!" James Harrison screamed from the other side of the field. When Danny glanced over at him, wearing Brian Hoyer's jersey (why?), he laughed before looking away, paranoid. He caught Brandin Cooks' eye for the quickest moment before the other Wide Receiver hurried away with bulging eyes and parted lips. _That_ was weird; but Danny knew he'd been spending a lot of time with James lately.

Danny Amendola knew everything.

"Saw the parody song about you. The one to the tune of that song. Hallelujiah. It was hilarious," Dion continued. But he did not _sound_ amused. Mostly, he looked and sounded like he was doing his best Bill Belichick impression with his blank expression (though Dion's was a touch more sad than Bill's) and flat voice (which was, again, a touch sadder than Bill's).

"Ha yeah, thanks, man," Danny replied, beaming. "Hey, where'd Tom go?"

The Quarter Back was no longer standing before him, throwing balls at Brian Hoyer. Dion shrugged loosely. "Donno. See ya, Dan."

"Okay, yeah. See ya, Dion. Chin up, man. Game's tomorrow! Gotta believe!"

"Yeah. Sure. Later."

On the other side of the field, Gronk was lifting Tom Brady off the ground, ballerina style.

* * *

 

"You can't be serious."

"Dead serious, man."

"You mean-- _Matt Stafford?_ For **Tom Brady**?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I mean."

"Not going to happen. You're lucky enough you're getting me. THAT IS OFF THE RECORD, BY THE WAY! At least until this Super Bowl is over." A gleam of sweat shimmered against Matt Patricia's forehead and his bushy beard twitched. He was sitting in his hotel room, waiting for an Uber to take him to the practice stadium when the phone had rung.

"Well, you'll have some pull, then," insisted Martha Ford.

"Not going to happen. I'm not sure why you're even bringing this up _now,_ right before the big game."

"What better time? You guys will win tomorrow and then you will announce you're becoming the head coach here and then we make an offer for a trade."

Matt shook his head, pulling at the whiskers of his mustache. "I'll think about it," he replied. It was the most he could offer right now.

"You'd better," said Martha. "Good luck at the game."

"Thanks. Talk to you soon. Buh-bye," Matt said, hanging up his phone.

Trading Tom Brady had been something discussed for years; but everyone _knew_ it wouldn't happen. He was too important to New England and New England was too important to him. But next year was going to change. Matt and Josh were both leaving. Bill was getting older and thinking about retirement soon enough. And there was tremendous pressure for Tom Brady to retire from every source in the world.

Maybe Martha was onto something.

* * *

Case Keenum had eaten one too many cherry tomatoes. 

His cheeks were the color of a firetruck, resembling his food of choice since the Vikings' horrific loss to the Eagles.

And _now,_ those son's of bitches were _here._ In _his_ home field!

THAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN HIM!

Once upon a time, Case had attempted to learn all he could about the elusive Patriots- _certain_ that he'd be the one to take on Tom Brady at Super Bowl LII, but those dreams were crushed at the hand of one Nick Foles and his little, malicious winged serpents.

A Haast's Eagle was perched on his throwing arm at the top of the stadium where the Eagles were practicing and Case reeked of plump, juicy tomatoes as he watched on with a pair of old fashioned binoculars.

Nick Foles was not a pretty man; not like he and Tom Brady.

Case sneered.

"I'll get you my _pretties,"_ he hissed, feeding the Haast's eagle a cherry tomato. "And your silverbacks, too. Soon, they will be mine. Muah-ha-ha-ha-ha!" he laughed deviously, rubbing his together and rustling the eagle around, causing it to caw. Nick Foles glanced up, but in the wrong direction. Slowly, Case rose to his feet, made his way to the back of the stadium, and mounted a Phiomia and rode it out into the sunset.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg like 24 hours panics mildly. ty for reading this trash <3


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE GAY STRIKES

"Ohboyokay! Okay! _Ha!_ Okay, put me- put me down, please!" Brady chuckled nervously as Gronk held him up to the sky.

Gronk stared up at Brady with wide eyes, "Gronk spike?"

" _NO!_  Noooooo. NO, BAD, GRONK. BRADY SAY _NO_."

"GRONK SPIKE..." Gronk pouted sadly, wanting so badly to spike his quarterback with all the love he had.

Brady grew very serious as he glared down into the eyes of Gronk. " _Don't_. _You_. _Dare_. _Spike_. _Me_."

Gronk nodded low, eyes filled with disciplined obedience. Slowly, he lowered Brady down so the quarterback's feet once again touched the earth's surface.

Tom Brady exhaled long and harsh, dusting himself off. "Good boy."

Gronk's mouth hung open and he stared intently at Brady.

Brady knew what that meant; his tight end needed more praise. " _Very_ good. Gronk a good boy. Who's a good boooyyy? _Who's_ a good boy?"

Gronk smiled and nodded eagerly, bouncing in place. 

Brady smiled back, " _Yes, you are!!_ Yes! _Yyyyes_. Yesss, you're _so_ good. Such a good boy -- yes, you are. GOOD!! BOY!!" 

Gronk smiled even wider, clapping his hands together. 

Brady nodded his head to the left a bit, gesturing for Gronk to follow him over to the bleachers. Once they were they Brady reached into a duffle bad and pulled out a small wrapped turkey and bacon sandwich from Dunkin Donuts, complete with Gronk's favorite special sauce. Brady handed the plastic paper covered sandwich to Gronk and Gronk yelped with joy. "Thank you, Tom!"

"Naw..." Tom smiled wide, "You're welcome, big guy. You're doing  _so great_. You earned this. Here you go!" They were both grinning so wide. Gronk took a seat and went to bite into his Dunkin Donut's delight, but Brady reached over and gently interrupted him to remove the wrapped first. "Let me just," he tugged the paper off and away from the sandwich, "Yeah, gotta get that off. Don't wanna eat that, now do ya!"

Gronk shook his head no, but he couldn't stop smiling even if he tried to. He was just so happy.

Brady crumpled the paper in his left hand and used his right to run his fingers through Gronk's short hairs. "You are just too cute. Stay cool, Gronk."

With a nod, Gronk eagerly ate his treat, biting half the sandwich off in one go.

Brady took a huge breath and headed over to dispose of the paper trash in his hand. On his way to the bin, Danny joined his side. "Hi, Tom." He sounded breathless.

* * *

Danny wasn't sure why he sounded so breathless despite only having just ran a couple feet. It was embarrassing so Danny tried to hold his breath... which only made it worse. 

A look of concerned crossed Brady's razor sharp, hot, chiseled, mature features. Danny blew out hard, heart racing from all the assault happening to it. ~~_Christ --- what was going on with him?_~~

Although the concern was still prominent on Brady's maddeningly cock hardening, vagina wetting, perfect, delicious face... _Danny stop!_

_Try again!_

_Ok._

**Although the concern was still prominent** on Brady's **face** , he grinned. He fucking grinned. Right at Danny.

Danny felt the air leave his lungs again, and he keeled over, hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath.

"DannyDannyohmygod, hey... hey you okay? Danny?" Brady leaned over as well, pressing his huge warm hand on Danny's back (right against Danny's, well Harrison's shirt. The material was so thin and loose against his skin that he could feel the heat of Brady's hand!). Danny wheezed and Brady got even closer and Danny squeezed his eyes shut as hard as he could. _LASER FOCUS, DANNY!  JUST FOCUS ON ANYTHING EXCEPT BRADY!...who you specifically ran over to.... YOU BROUGHT THIS ON YOURSELF, DANNY! YOU JUST WANTED TO ASK ABOUT THE WAY HE HELD YOUR HAND LAST NIGHT!_

Brady smoothed his hand over Danny's back and grabbed a fistful of his shirt, knuckles suddenly pressed into the center of Danny's back. And then... oh God. And then Brady's _other_ hand was on Danny's _face_ , cupping it gently, tilting his chin up so Danny could LOOK AT TOM BRADY'S FUCKING BEAUTIFUL HORRIBLE UNFAIR ILLEGAL HOT AS HELL FACE...

Danny dropped to his knees, and .... and Brady dropped with him.

The other player's glanced over a bit, but continued their drills. Bill completely ignored the entire situation, dismissing it easily for Bill just knew. Bill had seen Brady have this effect on many other players. 

Back to Danny though.

Danny and Brady were both on their knees now, Brady confused as fuck as he groped a hyperventilating Danny Amendola.

Danny swore between his gasps, _fffuck_ he moaned softly, feeling all of this shooting down into his gut, heating things up between his legs in the worst, worst way. Every touch from Brady, all the movement; Brady's deepened caring sweet voice,  and of course... OF COURSE... Brady leaned in closer to quietly ask: 

" _What?_ " 

It sounded SO dirty coming from Brady (or maybe that was just in Danny's head?) But... but!... it was as though Brady knew it was a private moment! As though Brady fucking knew he was wrecking Danny from the inside out! _Did he know?_ HE MUST HAVE KNOWN!

Brady appeared very confused. "Danny, babe.."

With a pained grunt, Danny Amendola came in his pants.

Danny came with the force of a thousand touchdowns. He cried out, sobbing as Brady ran his hands down his arms, reaching in to slide them up Danny's sides. Big, warm, skilled hands.

"Everything okay, guys?" Chris Hogan inquired merrily.

Stephon Gilmore jogged by behind Chris Hogan shooting Brady and Amendola a questionable glance before continuing on his way. 

David Andrews tapped Brady on the shoulder, "Hey man, ten-forty-steelers-are-homeless play, navy-blue-monkey-banana-handsoff is going great with defense."

Brady looked away from Danny for a moment and nodded up at David Andrews. "Love the sound of that, man."

Andrews patted Amendola's shoulder encouragingly before walking away, and Danny groaned softly, trembling in Brady's arms.

"C'mon, Danny -- let's do some throws now." He lifted them both up. Danny's knees buckled but he managed. Brady gave his ass a firm slap and Danny's eyes rolled, head lolling as Brady ran off, calling over his shoulder for Danny to get with it and follow him.

Danny blinked rapidly and glanced around the field. 

**TWENTY MINUTES LATER**

Danny had experienced three more orgasms from catching Brady's throws. It was getting harder and harder to run fast, he was felt his head spinning. He'd slammed into a few other players a few times and straight up fell backwards like seven times. 

Brady kept jogging over and _touching_ him, asking him if he was okay. And holy Lombardi it was just too much. 

Danny came another four times before practice was finally over. 

Afterwards he dragged himself up to his room and quite literally collapsed onto the floor, unable to peel any of his clothes off. That had been ENTIRELY unexpected, but it was the most _INTENSE_  sex (would it even be considered sex?) he'd _EVER_ had (IN PUBLIC, TO BOOT!) and maybe if his brain wasn't complete mush he could try to figure out what it meant. 

Instead, he passed out.

* * *

Up in his hotel room Brady found himself sitting on the edge of his bed and thinking about how strange Danny Amendola had been acting on the field. It was certainly not his best performance; Danny's technique had been way off in a way that Brady had never before seen on the field. It made him worry a bit. 

It was only 7:00 PM so Brady decided he'd check up on Danny before dinner. 

Right now he needed a shower... but first. 

First.

Brady pulled out his cell phone with every intention of calling Julian, but there were so many (mucho?) Spanish texts from Gisele that he felt too guilty ignoring them. Brady sighed and dialed his wife, but the second he heard her voice he couldn't help the small smile that formed on his full lips. "Hola, te amo," he said softly, content to listen as she began talking on the other side of the line.


	32. Memories and Misunderstandings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are, on the cusp of Super Bowl 52. Almost everyone is feeling the pressure. Will it break the team?

**RECAP; THE ROAD TO SUPER BOWL 52, AS TOLD BY JOSH MCDANIELS.**

        **September 7, 2017**

_Without Julian Edelman, I've watched my men struggle. No one more so than Tom._

_It's okay, though. That loss to the Chiefs was a wake up call._

_We're working on it._

**October 2, 2017**

_Two game win streak couldn't have lasted, right? I guess some things aren't meant to last. Fuck the Panthers. Tom's upset._

**October 30, 2017**

_Already missing Jimmy G. At least we're back to a winning streak._

**November 28, 2017**

_Won seven in a row. Can we make it to eight?_

_Noticed something about Tom Brady, though. Things just don't seem right. I'm worried about him. Talked to Bill. He was an asshole. Talked to Gronk. He was a sweetie. Talked to Stephon Gilmore. He has no friends._

**December 12, 2017**

_We lost to the Dolphins. We lost to the fucking DOLPHINS. Going to put in some extra time this week. Get ready for the Steelers. Bit worried. Road games are tough, but we can do it. Put in the time._

**December 13, 2017**

_Never seen Brady so upset. He locked us out of Gillette._

**December 14, 2017**

_Still locked out of Gillette. But we've been making do._

**December 18, 2017**

_WE BEAT THE STEELERS!!! Took first seed!_

_Not going to lie, though, things feel weird. I swear, something is up with Stephon Gilmore, but that's Patricia's problem. Brady seems distracted. What else is new? Think he's just stressed as we advance to the Playoffs. But first, the Bills and Jets..._

**December 25, 2017**

_Merry Christmas. Beat the Bills!!!_

_Rob Gronkowski got socks for Christmas. I got mugs._

_Bill's got a big announcement tomorrow. I have a feeling I know what's coming. They're cutting Tom._

**January 1, 2018**

_Couldn't have been more wrong about my prediction. We signed James Harrison.  
_

_Additionally, we beat the Jets. Happy freakin' New Year!_

_Matt Cassel's been sneaking around. He thinks hes inconspicuous but we all can spot him from a mile a fucking way. Let him spy, it's fine. We'll still be called the Cheaters._

_The New Year's Eve Party was wild. Swear I saw something between Jules and Danny... In a coat room? And Gronk was shimmying quite a bit. No man should move like that. And Brady can't dance, but we all knew that... Martellus Bennett had a bunch of kids books. Probably for his charity. Maybe just because he loves books. Stephon was sneaking around again...._

**January 15, 2018**

_We beat the Titans. Obviously.  
_

_Now Matt Cassell can fuck off._

_Julian called me, crying. Left a weird message. I couldn't understand him. Best not to get involved. Gisele has been everywhere, trying to get Brady to retire as usual. I honestly don't like that. But hey, who am I but a lowly coach?_

_Oh yeah and I'm going to be a head coach next year, most likely._

_Not for the Pats.... Don't know how I feel about that..._

_On to the Jaguars... HOW the HELL did the Steelers lose? LMAO!!!_

**January 18, 2018**

_Brady sliced open his hand and I swear to god, I saw some... wild characters outside Gillette... Jaguars is what it looked like.  
_

_Couple Jags fans showed up. We showed them the Hall video... You know the protocol._

_Brady will be fine, but let's not be hasty in telling the press that._

_I really don't like Blake Bortles..._

**January 20, 2018**

_What if we don't make it to the Super Bowl?_

_The trash talk doesn't really bother me, but sometimes these opponents are so damn sure of themselves._

_Keep seeing Danny trying to get Brady's attention. What's he want, anyway? I'm supposed to be his go-to..._

**January 22, 2018**

_We won. Somehow, we won. Super Bowl 52 here we come....._

_Definitely saw Jules at the stadium this week, before the game, actually. Before Brady got hurt. Everything from there out has been a blur. I think he looked sad?  Should probably call him back._

_Gronk got a concussion. You know the drill on that one. Code red. CODE RED. Can't easily tame a beast like that, can you? We've pulled out all the stops..._

**January 29, 2018**

_On the plane to Minnesota. Send off rally was amazing... We have the best fans._

_I'm so nervous, but I can't let my guys see it. Thought we'd be taking on the Vikings. This might be a blessing in disguise. I swear, Nick Foles has something severely wrong with him. Also, what the hell is up with Cooks and Harrison? I feel bad for the youngling. James isn't the nicest man._

_Bill keeps yelling at me._

_Media Night is TONIGHT...._

**January 30, 2018  
**

_All anyone really cared about at Media Night was getting Bill Bellichick to smile. Why? Oh and Tom Brady's stupid man crush. People need to get lives, really. Jules texted me, he seemed happier, at least. Still haven't talked to him.  
_

_We have been laser focused since we arrived. Practiced today. Practicing all day, every day. Watching lots of footage. Just another Super Bowl, right? No biggie._

_No biggie...._

**February 1, 2018**

_I'm going to throw up, honestly._

_Also-- side note--Did I see Nick Foles give Tom Brady a rose?  
_

**February 3, 2018**

_We can do this, can't we?_

* * *

"Hey, Matty-boy!"

"Oh, hey there, Stephen!" Matthew Slater beamed as the placekicker jogged up to him in the middle of the final full day of practice. "How's it going, pal?"

"Goooooood," Stephen replied with a wide grin across his pretty little lips. "I wanted to ask for your advice, though. I'm thinking about asking someone on a date and was _wondering,_ what do you think is the _most romantic thing in the world--"_

"Oh gosh, Stephen, what a question. _What. A. Question!"_ Slater released a laugh. Stephen's mouth was still open, but he didn't have the heart to tell Matthew that he hadn't finished his question. Instead, he smiled eagerly. "Gosh, you know, I think there are some old classics that are classic for a reason. You know? Like, a good old fashioned bouquet of red roses or her favorite flower. If you need help figuring that out, let me know, man!"

"Oh," Stephen scratched the back of his head, considering. "Well, _maybe._ It's um-- It's _actually_ not a girl, but it's--" Stephen inhaled a deep breath and allowed it to fill his cheeks. "It's Ryan," he murmured.

Slater was silent for a moment, his expression unchanging but his lips parted. "Oh gosh, that's great, man! I mean, I'm happy for you, my brother! I mean-- you don't think it'll get messy? But, if that's what you want to do, I fully support you!"

Stephen beamed. "Really? Thanks, man. Yeah, I'm sure. I've known Ryan a while now. I think now's as good a time as any, you know? Maybe right after the Super Bowl, so that it doesn't distract us."

"Well, maybe it'll prove more of a distraction for _you_ if you wait, right?" Slater pointed out.

"Oh, yeah. I guess you're right. Maybe I should do it tonight."

"Perfect! Here's what you should do--" Slater pulled Stephen into a huddle just as Ryan Allen made his way onto the field, a bouquet of red roses in his hands. Tears immediately welled up in his eyes and he turned on his heel, dashing back into the locker room.

* * *

Stephon Gilmore was hiding in a single shower, wearing a complete army uniform fully equipped with a bullet proof vest and helmet. Around his neck were countless knuckle bones from an unidentifiable mammal. He pressed _record_ on his tape recorder and held it out just beyond the curtain.

"I _tried,"_ Ryan sobbed. "I _tried_ but it was too late."

He paused.

"No, no. I'll be okay," Ryan stammered, sniffing hard to reel himself in. "No, it's okay. I'll be fine. I'll just talk to him after the game. Don't need the drama _right now...._ Yeah. Thanks. Love you too. I'll talk to you later, mom. Bye."

The sound of the door closing echoed through the locker room and Stephon sat down on the bench in the shower. This was _not_ what he was looking for. Unless...

Unless _mom_ was code word for someone else! He hopped up, ready to leave. What he needed now was a fresh baby lamb and an Episcopal Church.

Just then, the locker door slammed shut.

"Not again, Gronk. You got this," boomed Rob's voice in the small space. Stephon pressed himself up against the shower wall, shaking in his boots. Rob Gronkowski was one beast he did not mess with. "YOU WILL NOT FAIL YOUR TEAM. You will not have another repeat of Miami. You will not. You cannot! It's the Super Bowl!"

The curtain whisked open at once and Stephon's eyes bulged as he was met with the furious face of Rob Gronkowski.

For what felt like an eternity, their eyes locked. Stephon's hand cupped the phone in his pocket, ready to call for backup if necessary. But all at once, Rob stepped forward and grasped the bones around Stephon's neck, yanking them off.

"You been eating chicken without me, bro?" Gronk asked, shaking his head. "Erryone knows how much I love chicken! What you holding out for?!?!?!"

Stephon snatched the bones back, his expression horrified. "You-- you destroyed the Sacred Necklace of Doom.... How... how could you? I need to fix this!"

"Woah, man, what? That a Christmas present or something? Haha. I just got socks," Rob replied, beaming. "Well, sorry about that. I'll get you some super glue, I got it in my bag."

"SUPER GLUE? YOU THINK THE DANG SACRED NECKLACE OF DOOM CAN BE FIXED WITH SUPER GLUE?" he asked, scandalized.

"Well, super glue is good for everything, man. Bumps and bangs, shatters and spikes. The goods the not so goods. The bads the not so bads. The crackles and whips. The whiskers and tickles. The blips and bandoozles. The vibrations and the smooths. Everything! I once fixed my old man's thumb with super glue. Hold on," Rob paused to grab his bag from his locker. He returned with a super jumbo tube of super glue. "Here we are!"

"No," Stephon interrupted. "It wasn't meant to be. The signs have deceived me. The Sacred Necklace of Doom was meant to be broken...."

He sadly handed the broken necklace of bones to Gronk, indicating he wanted it no longer.

"Ha ha ALRIGHT!" Gronk shimmied in celebration before he looked at Stephon with excitement. "GRONK SPIKE!" he shouted, and then spiked the necklace against the shower floor, watching the bones shatter into a million pieces. "Haha. Awesome. Hey, wanna go get Taco Bell with me and Nate Solder?"

* * *

Dion Lewis _reeked._ He always reeked lately. It was so hard to care about personal hygiene when he was busy with football and... all the other things in his head.

Practice had been long and the frigid temperatures in Minnesota were brutal (who the hell voted on Minnesota for the Super Bowl? It was subzero temperatures, for fuck's sake, and it was February. Bad planning. No one knew how to do anything, it seemed, including himself). He removed his clothes slowly after everyone had found their showers or changing stalls of their own, and stepped behind the curtain.

Dion Lewis screamed bloody murder.

Right there, on the ground, was a scattering of _bones._

Just what he fucking needed.

"Now I'm gonna be arrested," he said distantly, depressed.

When Dion turned around, butt naked, his arm bumped straight into the one and only Tom Brady.

"I'm sorry," he said sadly and took a single step back.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for bearing with us through this! Thanks for reading!  
> GO PATS DO YOUR JOB PATS NATION WOOOOOHOOOOO!!!


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> guys - we were supposed to cream the eagles last night.  
> instead, we got pecked by them. 
> 
> it was a great game for the Eagles and i'm sorry for the Patriots super bowl loss last night... but the fact of the matter is.... we're just... #not done. 
> 
> DO YOU HEAR ME?
> 
> I SAID WE'RE: N O T D O N E !!!!!
> 
> ( yo congrats to the eagles tho, they earned it. happy for you, philly! )

**MOMENTS BEFORE SUPER BOWL 52**

_\--- "You're just giving up on me, are you?! Don't DO this.. let me play! I can DO this- just... just... listen, I believe in you... just please, PLEASE... believe in me too?..."_ _however, they told Butler no and Butler nodded, "fine.. I trust you.." he said, and during the anthem he couldn't hold back his tears..._

**DURING SUPER BOWL 52**

_\--- "I could've played this! I feel like I could be out there with mah boys! Tom! TOM! He can't hear me, argh! Look at what he's DOING! Tom NEEDS me!_ _Why didn't they CLEAR me?"_ _Several men held Edelman back from running out onto the field. "But he needs me..." he cried out, eyes locked on Brady just fumbling around all_ _over the place on the field. "HE NEEDS ME... TOM?!... TOMMMM...!" it was no use. Brady couldn't hear Edelman, too much distance between them._

_\--- After his failed field goal attempt, Gostkowski felt dead on the inside. Ryan looked over with pleading eyes but Gostkowski couldn't meet his gaze. After the second failed field goal attempt Gostkowski decided he would take his own life after the game. And when he punted it into the arms of a running Eagle he released a battle growl. "ARGGGGGGHHHHH---" BOOOMBABAMMMMM he tackled the eagle. The eagle glanced up in shock of such raw rage coming from the slim Patriot._

_\--- "I bet Brady will love me even more if I execute the exact same play he couldn't do on nationwide TV..." Nick Foles thought to himself._

_\--- "Jesus effing hell, it's my roommate from college and my groomsman..." Gilmore had never felt so distracted._

_\--- "OWWWW...." Cooks couldn't move, "fuck" he thought to himself... "fuc--" he couldn't remember where he was. "who am i..." he wondered._

_\--- "YES!!! FOR PAUL!" Harmon thought, as he ran down the field._

__\--- "I'm sorry, I'm sorry but REVENGE... FUCK TOM BRADY!" Blount angrily convinced himself, scoring a touchdown, feeling everything break apart for a second only to come together stronger than before. Finally, he knew for certain... he hated the patriots._ _

_\--- "GRONK SPIKE!!"_

_\--- "Chung will no go down wit'out fight!" Chung ran back onto the field, ready as ever to serve his purpose._

_\--- Eric Rowe couldn't take his eyes off Malcolm Jenkins... Rowe had never felt more betrayed. Then again all was fair in love and football._

_\--- "Two minutes left. I can do this." But then a familiar ache in Brady's right hand throbbed as his form broke right before he was able to throw... an Eagle pecked his hand._

_\--- "THROW IT TO ME..." Amendola wished..._

_\--- "This is a mess... I'm sorry, Danny..." Chris Long thought to himself. "Fuck Tom Brady... Fuck Tom Brady... Fuck Tom Brady..."_

_\--- "Have I made a mistake..." Bill wondered._

_\--- "Please, Gronk..." Brady thought to himself, and then... h a i l m a r y y y y y y y_

**MOMENTS AFTER SUPER BOWL 52**

"I .... I couldn't... I'm sorry..." Gronk appeared shocked, not sure where to look. 

Brady felt like a child all over again, but he pulled himself together enough to grab Gronk's face, to hold onto it, "It's _okay,"_ voice wrecked _._

"I'm sorry... I couldn't..."

"Rob, please." Brady blinked away tears, blinked them out of his eyes so they streaked his face. "Please."

"I can't do this anymore, I can't." Gronk shook his head. " _Gronk no more_."

Brady rubbed his thumbs over Gronk's jawline, "Rob, please _. Please_ don't say that..." more tears. "Rob.. I need you."

"I let us all down, Tom."

"No, please..." he whispered. 

* * *

Stephon Gilmore knelt down in the shower room, slowly picking up the pieces of the Doomed Bones of Epic Victory that Gronk had yanked off his neck and broken. Gilmore's lips trembled as he felt the bones slip through his fingers. "It was foolish of me to believe..." he whispered. He picked up and discarded all of the bones. "No more black magic for me. No more loneliness."

He nearly collapsed as he walked, falling into a wall which. He propped himself up with an elbow and called Julian on the phone. 

"WHAT!" Julian yelped.

"I'm sorry... I'M SORRY..."

"Stephon?!" 

"I'm sorry. About that preseason fight with you. I'm sorry. No more. I forgive you."

"Uh... I... same, bro, what-" Julian was cut off.

Because Gilmore hung up. "I'M SORRY!!!!!!!!" He screamed, falling to his knees.

Dion Lewis ran over. "Shit... Did I miss the Super Bowl???" Dion asked, more to himself than to Gilmore. He shook his head, unable to remember, and decided to not make this about him, but rather help a friend in need. "Gilmore????"

Stephon looked up, "I.... I'm sorry. I'M USELESS."

Dion fell to his knees and gripped Gilmore's shoulders. "Don't be depressed, Stephon... you have me. You have us, the team. We love you."

Gilmore sobbed, falling into Dion's arms and Dion held onto him, realizing solemnly that he needed to take his own advice. He vowed then to no longer be depressed.

* * *

" _Mr. Gostkowski?_ My main man?..." Ryan hesitantly asked in a mildly sing song voice.

Stephen looked away, pouting at the floor. 

"Stephen..." Ryan sat down beside him, placing his hand on Stephen's knee. "It's on me. It was my fault. Please don't blame yourself."

Gostkowski didn't say anything. 

"Look, Stephen. There's a bouquet of flowers in my locker for you right now. I never got to give them to you. They're still for you if you still want them."

Gostkowski shut his eyes tightly, leaning into Ryan.

Ryan locked his arms around Stephen. "I love you." He whispered.

Stephen still couldn't speak, but Ryan felt a soft nod against his chest. 

* * *

Malcolm Butler looked up to the sky, wondering... wondering... wondering... why had the world given up on him tonight?

* * *

"Hey, Tom...whadju think of that, huh?" Nick dully stated with as much charm as he could, grinning slightly. 

Brady slammed the door before Nick Foles could get any closer. 

Nick's movement hesitated, and then he froze, realizing somehow... that this was the end of any chance he'd ever have with Tom Brady.

* * *

"He could've thrown it to me but he didn't." Danny groaned shakily, "I didn't do my job--- I wanted to DO MY JOB..."

Julian nearly slapped Danny. "YES YOU DID. YOU DID YOUR JOB, DANNY. God, Danny just, God... I know how you feel I just..." Julian grabbed at Danny's shoulders, but felt Danny jerking away. 

"They cut me, Julian.. and now they've won..."

" _Danny!_ "

"And you'll never _choose_ me. You'll never _want_ me."

"DANNY!" Julian's heart pounded, as he worked his hands up to cup Danny's face. "STOP IT, DUDE. Stop it! LOOKATME... Look at me."

Danny's eyes were bloodshot when they met Julian's.

"There was never any choice." Julian's voice cracked. "It was always you, how could you not know that? There was never any choice."

Danny blinked blurry hot tears as he watched Julian.

"There was never any _choice_." Julian swallowed hard and brought Danny's head down into his chest, running his hand through the other's hair. "You have me. I'm here. I'm _here_."

* * *

Brady sobbed into his wife's embrace, spirit completely broken. 

"Você fez tão bem, meu amor...."

Brady had no idea what it meant but it soothed him. "Te amo..." he whispered.


	34. Patriots Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We didn't get our sixth ring; but maybe we're getting something better.   
> There is hope in Pats Nation as new beginnings start to solidify.  
> Super Bowl LII might be done and over now, but there's always next year.

A golden halo surrounded a massive, dark silhouette standing in his front doorway.

Brandin Cooks thought he'd died and gone to heaven. The face of God, glorious God, was greeting him with open arms as he rubbed sleepy eyes and slowly lifted his wary head from a squashy pillow.

He _knew_ that the cheap hit, helmet-to-helmet contact that took him out of the game had been pretty _bad,_ but he was told he'd be just fine. But maybe the doctors had missed something.

"Hello?" Brandin called, his voice sounding distant, like an echo. It occurred to him, then, that he had never _imagined_ heaven to look just like his mother's house, like the house he still lived in.

"HELLO!"

Brandin fell back down against the couch, slamming his eyes shut. They'd arrived home, to New England, earlier that day and he was exhausted from the entire ordeal. This was the last thing he needed.

"Brandin," it was still James Harrison, but there was a softness to his voice that the wide receiver had never before heard. "I thought you was a goner."

"I mean, plenty of people get head injuries," Brandin murmured. When he opened his eyes again, James was above him, his face hovering just inches above his own, causing Brandin to flinch visibly, his hand rising to shove the linebacker away.

"What're you doing here?" Brandin whined. It was the end of the season and he assumed, maybe too soon, that James would go home- wherever _that_ was.

"The plan, Brandin," James cooed, reaching out to brush bulky fingers along Brandin's forehead. He'd heard James utter these words countless times since he first signed with the Patriots. It felt like that day was many moons ago now, but the truth was, it was barely over a month since James had entered his life. He inhaled deeply and stared up at James, brows scrunched.

"Will you ever tell me what the plan is, James?"

"Yes. But you have to come with me. I have booked us a flight on Air George."

Brandin sat up slowly and released a long sigh. "What's Air George?"

"Air George," James repeated slowly. "Things is changing. Some good, some bad. But I need you, Cookie. I need you." He hadn't realized how badly he needed Brandin until he'd seen the young wide receiver laying, motionless and helpless on the field.

Brandin inhaled a deep breath. What did he _have_ here, anyway? He still lived with his mother despite the money he raked in with the NFL and now, with the off season upon him, Brandin knew depression would kick his ass harder than Stephen Gostkowski punted a ball.

"Alright, let me tell my mom."

An hour later, Brandin was seated beside one James Harrison on a luxurious plane, headed in a direction he did not know. Life was funny that way. Sometimes, he supposed, it wasn't what you expected.

But sometimes, it was better.

It was moments after James insisted on taking a photograph of the pair en route to a new destination that James leaned over.

"The plan. Are you ready?"

"I was born ready."

* * *

 

_What if..._

_...you'd passed it to Amendola?  
...you'd caught that trick play pass?  
...you'd thrown the ball a second sooner, before Brandon Graham charged? You saw him coming. You could have done it._  
 _...you'd made a different call?_  
...you'd thrown better? Deeper? Wider?  
...you'd pass rushed more?  
...you'd given a better pep talk?  
...you'd convinced Coach to do another route?

Tom Brady sat in his private jet staring out the window just one day after Super Bowl 52. Gisele was beside him, and though she'd tried to hold his hand, he'd pulled away. 

_He_ needed this moment. To grieve, to wonder, to console himself; and no one would take that away from him.

_500 yards in a Super Bowl, that was great, Tom!_

Echos of Josh McDaniel's voice played in his head as the Super Bowl had finished. He'd broken his own record, but it hadn't been enough. 

_It wasn't your fault, man!_

But it was.

Tom knew better and this was his way. Three Super Bowl's lost, and it never got easier. No, he preferred the five wins. Of fucking _course_ he preferred winning, and that was precisely why he would be back for the 2018 season.

Bigger. _Better_.

But... without Josh McDaniels, who was he, really? Josh had been with him for every win. The Offensive Coordinator had been _more_ than that to Tom. The Quarter Back's Coach, the one who helped him succeed, who helped him become a five time Super Bowl champion. Now, after Matt Patricia's announcement earlier that day, Josh was expected to make his own transfer official. Tom had needed to get away, and despite protests from his wife, they had packed their bags and hopped on their jet as soon as time allowed.

No press conferences. No social media. No comments. Nothing.

The plane lurched as wheels touched down on the runway in the Bahamas and Tom finally focused on the nothingness he had been staring at through the window. Bright blue skies, palm trees, and the distant view of turquoise waters; it was what he needed right now.

"Te amo," Gisele murmured in his ear as she leaned over her husband and pressed a soft kiss to the shell of his ear. Tom reached for her without looking.

"Te amo," he replied, his tone and expression as deflated as he felt.

* * *

"Welcome to the team!" Andrew Luck beamed as he spoke into the phone to one Josh McDaniels. 

"Thank you, Drew. Can I call you Drew?" Josh asked. He tugged an absent hand against his New England Patriots visor as he sat in his 1957 Oldsmobile Super 88, a collector's car he mostly just kept in his garage for eye candy. It was a thing of beauty. Josh licked his lower lip as his hand gripped the steering wheel.

The announcement had come a little earlier in the day, when Josh verified to the Colts organization that he would, indeed, accept the offer as Head Coach to Indianapolis.

"'Course you can," Andrew replied. This was exactly what the Colts needed. Deflategate was still a topic of controversy surrounding the two teams, but this unity would benefit the NFL; but most importantly, it would benefit Andrew who would now have the incredible opportunity to work hand-in-hand with arguably the best Offensive Coach the league had ever seen. Despite the Patriots loss in Super Bowl LII, Andrew had _seen_ what Josh's side of the field could do- especially that elusive Tom Brady. "We'll talk more logistics once you arrive. When are you planning on relocating here?"

"Officially, at the end of my kid's school year, probably," Josh replied, allowing his hand to slip over the slick steering wheel, his eyes focusing on a garden hose hung up at the other end of his two-car garage.

"Awesome. I look forward to it, man. And I assume you'll be flying here soon?"

"Yep. Booking my ticket today," Josh said.

"Great. Well, just wanted to welcome you officially. I look forward to working with you, _coach,"_ Andrew beamed, emphasizing the last word rather theatrically. It made Josh's heart skip a beat.

"Me too," Josh replied. "See ya."

He hung up his phone and glanced down at his phone, brows furrowed as he watched a texts appear.

 **Bill Belichick [2:44PM]:** xppdl  
 **Bill Belichick [2:44PM]:** ###9*331

The phone suddenly rang in his hand, flashing Bill's name across the screen.

"Hello? Coach?"

"Damned thing, piece of shit. Can't even make a goddamn call. Fuckin' hell. I hate cell phones. Useless," Bellichick was muttering distantly. Josh heard a series of beeps before the line went dead and he slowly glanced up. The phone rang again showing Bill's name across the screen.

"Bill?"

"Oh, good, it worked. Hello, Josh," Bill mumbled. "I have to ask you something."

"What?" Josh asked, his heart rate picking up.

"Stay. Stay with the Patriots. Kraft wants you, I want you. Tom wants you."

"Really?" Josh asked, licking his lower lip as his grip on the wheel tightened, turning his knuckles white.

"I want you by my side. I want to open my world to you." He'd been unaware of the lump that'd begun to form in his throat until that very moment. Emotions were not appreciated by Bill, so Josh swallowed tightly and said nothing. He did not trust his own voice. "Please. Seal the deal. Say yes. You know you will take over when I retire."

Josh glanced to the side. Had this been a part of the plan all along? He'd always felt guilty about even _talking_ with the Colts. He didn't _want_ to leave, but it had been expected of him.

"You don't even have to ask, Bill."

He could _almost_ hear Bill smiling; the beautiful stretch of the Patriot's Head Coach's lips was something strained and unaccustomed on his set face. But there was the smallest semblance of a released breath of relief and, could it be?, happiness.

"I know, Josh. See you soon."

Bill hung up without waiting for a reply.

Without hesitation, Josh McDaniels pressed his speed dial to reach ESPN.

"Hello, ESPN?"

"Hi. This is Josh McDaniels. I have decided against the Head Coaching job with the Colts. Sending you a selfie right now to prove it."

Josh had scribbed the words " _New England Offensive Coordinator, Josh McDaniels. February 6, 2018"_ on a piece of paper, quickly opened up his front-facing camera, and took a selfie. In no time at all, it landed in the hands of ESPN.

"I can trust you to make it known?"

"Certainly."

ESPN hung up, and Josh opened his text messages, scrolling to tap on Chris Ballard's name.

 **Josh McDaniels [3:00PM]:** Had a change of heart. I'm staying in New England.

* * *

_ESPN BREAKING NEWS: Josh McDaniels turns down Head Coaching job with the Colts to stay as Offensive Coordinator with the New England Patriots [more].  
_

The alert lit up Tom's phone as he relaxed beneath the hot sun in the Bahamas, his long legs outstretched before him and a huge drink of water in his hand. He'd had his headphones in and the soft buzz against his leg caused him to glance at the screen. Using his throwing hand, he shielded the screen from the sun so he could properly read the alert.

"Holy shit!" Tom yanked his earbuds out of his ears as a bright grin stretched across his lips. Hope filled him from head to toe.  _Finally_ some good news. "We got this!"

_Rest. Recover. Resilience._

* * *

Matt Patricia's phone buzzed in his pocket as he debarked his plane in Detroit, his bushy beard making him recognizable in the airport full of Lion's fans who were greeting him with a round of applause. Matt smiled, giving them all a quick nod before he ducked into his private limo, stashing his sports bag on the ground. 

The alert flashed across his phone.

Josh McDaniels was staying.

A pang of guilt and sorrow consumed his belly. Hands balled into meaty fists as his phone fell by his feet. He could see it now. Josh embracing Tom. Josh embracing _Bill._

Bill.

 **BILL BELICHICK.** The Greatest Coach of All Time.

What had he done?!

It was impossible to breathe and Matt's head fell against the window as the limo pulled out of the airport. A single tear escaped his eye, catching in the wiry hears around his chin.

"Mr. Patricia?" Bob Quinn asked. "Everything okay?"

"No."

_And it never would be._

Matt yanked at his beard, feeling uncomfortable in his own skin. It was _itchy_ and uncomfortable and he needed it gone. _NOW._

Matt reached into his bag for the pair of scissors in his first aid kit that had become a habit of carrying around with him (he'd seen so many concussions, so many bumps and bruises) and began hacking at his beard right there, in the limo, as tears ran freely down his plump cheeks.

Wiry, curled hair landed in his lap and on the floor of the limo and Matt Patricia felt _new_.

* * *

"Free agent, huh?" Julian punched Danny's thigh as they sat in a rather rowdy Italian restaurant. It was good to be home again. Watching the Super Bowl from the sidelines, screaming Danny's name for the entire duration of the game, had been difficult. But, after _everything,_ that felt like a million years away, now; for Julian, especially. As much as he hated watching his team lose, he knew it meant one good thing. The new season would be upon them soon and he would be back on the field.

"Shut up. You know it means nothing," Danny replied, though Julian didn't miss him glancing down at his bowl of pasta and meatballs. It _did_ mean something. Danny _wanted_ to be in New England; it was why he'd accepted pay cuts for three straight years. He was exactly the type of player that was filled with passion and desire for the game that Bill always looked for; but there was worry there, too.

_What if Bill didn't want him anymore? What if Kraft thought someone else was better for the job? What if they had enough Wide Receivers now, with Julian returning?_

After the Malcolm Butler disaster, they both knew their coach was capable of some unusual calls. 

"I know," Julian lied, allowing his hand to wrap around Danny's firm, muscular thighs. He licked his lips as he stared at the other wide receiver. "I can't wait to be on the field together again." Danny smiled sadly.

"Me too, man. With you."

* * *

"Who would rob Rob?" Gronk asked a petite (compared to him) police officer who was standing in his grand entryway, holding a notebook as he scribbled notes. 

"I don' know," the officer replied in a Boston accent. "But we'll figya it out. Don't ya wahrry."

"Gronk worry," he replied, frowning. "I can't even Gronk spike."

There'd been a tear in his eyes since he had boarded the plane from Minnesota to Rhode Island and then the bus to Foxboro to clear out his locker for the season and, perhaps, for the final time.

_If only he had caught that pass._

The fucking Eagles defense had been all over him. He'd had _no chance,_ and Tom had reassured him that it hadn't been his fault; but Gronk knew better. There was always a way to improve and he wondered if, maybe, it was his fault they'd lost the Super Bowl. They seemed to have done just fine the year before, without him.

How could he have let it happen?

Did they really need him anymore?

And now. _Now._ He'd come home to find that his house had been targeted in burglary.

"Yeah, ya can Gronk spike," the officer encouraged. He'd been a huge Patriots fan since childhood and being in Rob Gronkowski's home had been more than a little intimidating, especially after the tight end had been rumored to be considering retirement after a lost Super Bowl. He'd been injured so often, and so many concussions could ruin a man's life. Officer Benjamin Foles felt it was his duty to offer the tight end some support so that _maybe_ Rob would consider returning to the Patriots. "Yous a great playa, man."

"Thanks," Gronk replied solemnly. "But Gronk needs safe."

"We'll find it faw ya. I prahmise."

"You promise?" Gronk asked, his brows pulling together sadly. He looked like a kicked puppy and it took everything in officer Foles not to hug him.

"Ya, I prahmise."

Gronk managed a smile. He grabbed the officer's notepad from his hand without permission and sent it to the ground so hard, the spiral broke. "GRONK SPIKE!" he screamed.

"There ya go!" the officer replied, giving an encouraging high five to the massive tight end.

"Thanks, Officer Foles. Hey, by any chance..." he paused. "Are you related to Nick?"

The officer's eyes bulged and his cheeks turned the color of cherries as he released an unsteady laugh.

"Nephew. But I don't talk to that side've the family."

Gronk nodded slowly. "Small world."

"Guess so. Anyway, we'll find ya safes, don't worry. We'll send ova special units soon. And hey, Gronk? Yaw the best tight end I've eva seen."

Rob managed a smile. "Thanks, man."

* * *

"It isn't over. It's just a new beginning."

Malcolm Butler hadn't cried and prayed so much in the span of just a few, _long_ days in the whole of his short life. He was so ready to move on, so ready to put Super Bowl LII behind him. There were things that transpired that he might never speak of again in his life, but Malcolm had never been a bitter man. He knew there were bigger things out there for him.

All he could do was pray that whatever happened, he would wind up in a place that made _him_ happy.

"2018. I'm ready for you. I'll work harder. Better. Stronger." He exhaled a deep breath before ducking down over his sink to splash cold water on his skin.

Truthfully, he was just tired. He dried off his face and found his own reflection again. Maybe it was just him, but there was a change in those dark eyes of his.

Malcolm pulled on his Patriots-logo pajama bottoms and exited his bathroom, flipping off the light.

"Here's to next year."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this got long. Thank you so much for sticking with us through the first of our series. It was fun to write and a great way to cope with the stress of the season and Super Bowl. It was a sad day, but we will come back stronger than ever! Congrats to the Eagles!  
> Look out for series 2 coming to you soon!
> 
> side note- the whole James/Cooks thing started out so randomly and then James Harrison goes and posts a thing on Instagram.
> 
> This story has mostly written itself. <3  
> Thank you so much for reading this.  
> We love you!


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